


Of Broken Crowns, Realms & Other Things.

by DayDreamingAni



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU really, AU so very hard, Again the AU is strong in this one, As in like every one of them, Blatant Abuse of Tolkien Characters, F/M, Good Elves, Humans are kind Trash in here to be honest, Khaleesi/Khal Drogo kinda vibe, M/M, Nomadic Hobbits, Not so Good Dwarves, Not so Good Elves, Not so Good Orcs, Playing Fast and Loose with Valar's Creations, Romance in Azog/OFC, Timeline? What Timeline?, Tolkien Forgive me for I am weak, good dwarves, good orcs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:22:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayDreamingAni/pseuds/DayDreamingAni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orcs are the offspring of a master long since dead. A creation of misery, despair, of pain and violence. A creation that is mindless in their bloodlust. A creation meant to destroy and be destroyed. They are a wicked bunch. A perversion of the light of Eru.<br/>Yet...<br/>Not all is as it seems.<br/>For there are many, Orc, goblin and those in between that find no home in the call of darkness. There are still a great many who wish for quiet peace and homes. Those who have turned their back to the dark.</p><p> </p><p>This very hard Au, tells the story of how Hobbits remained Nomadic, some Orcs and Goblins broke ties with the dark, Dwarves still waged War in vengeance and Men are for whatever reason tainted. Elves can't be bothered to help anyone anymore.<br/>The one ring still exists but it lies not in a small pale hand anymore.<br/>AU in which Hobbit's and a sect of Orc/Goblin's Tie Hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so just a few pointers, before we begin so that those unfortunate enough to have clicked aren't lost and making 'Wahhhhhhh" noises at your computer screen.  
> The Battle of Greenfields is lost, as is the Shire. The Hobbit's have been forced back into their Nomadic ways. Slowly they trek about Arda in search of a safe place that may host them and allow them some peace. But war seems to be on every end of the Realm. Darkness has grown strong and willful and has begun to extend its hand to every realm no matter the race.  
> The world has darkened and not all that once was now is. Things are changing, people are changing and the rules of Arda are about to take a nose dive in what is natural and what isn't.

_“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”_  
_―_ **_G.K. Chesterton_ **

 

***~***

 

 

 

“Is there, truly, no other option?” he asks, his voice—for the first time in a very long while—waivers under the sheer amount of failure he feels pummeling his heart.

 

With a soft sigh and a compassionate glance the old man shakes his silver mane and begins, “I'm afraid not, old friend.”

 

'Old friend', the smaller of the two nearly laughs at the endearment. They are no more friends as a hawk is with a crow. If anything at all, the old wizened man was his mother's friend. His mother who fought and won three wars under her rule. His mother was her friend because it was his mother who had made friends with just about anyone—from any race—who happened across her path.

 

If anything at all, the wizard and he were mere partners in this mad quest to find peace. Even at that, the Thain had to argue, that the wizard was a poor partner indeed. For he never dealt directly in the negotiations. He never offered aid when wars and battles began. He never intervened on his peoples behalf when in another's kingdom.

 

The wizard and he were many things, but, 'Old Friends' was not among them.

 

“An alliance...” he murmurs down to his bare feet. In the soft dirt of his tent he curls his dirty toes. Desperate, to feel the thrum of their mother at his soles. Desperate to feel some reassurance over all this madness.

 

“As much as one can be forged,” the Grey Wizard answers lowly.

 

“So the Elves declined,” he asks in a whisper, his heart breaking beneath his ribs.

 

There is a rustle of robes that indicate that even the wizard is burdened by the truth of his coming words, “They will not risk the wrath of those who have gathered in the dark. They believe they, for a lack of better words, own not a tree within this forest of these matters.”

 

“Not even Lord Elrond?” his voice cracks. As he had, in some way, been entirely sure that his mothers oldest and dearest friend would come to his aid. He had been sure, so very sure, that they would house them. That the magical barriers erected around the elvish domain would be open to them if only for a short time. Long enough that their strength could be restored. That the few children that remained would have some protection from the coming winter and violence.

 

He had hoped that the most compassionate being in all of Arda would have found it in his heart to help.

 

But, as it was, not even Elrond would extend his assistance.

 

Glancing his green eyes up and under the fringe of his honey colored curls he demands, “And what of the Dwarves? Will they not honor the Old Allegiance written by the hand of their own Past King?”

 

“They have not answered any of the missives you or I have sent to them.” The wizard answers in a solemn tone.

 

“And...” he whispers, for a moment his despair flagging and frail hope welling in his throat, “If we wait? Only until we've heard word from them?”

  
The pity in those plying gray eyes set like heavy stones on the smaller figure, “I cannot guarantee that the Blue Mountains shall answer.”

 

“Why not?” he bites out, desperation and frustration bleeding into hot anger that showed in the way his shoulders straightened, “Does not the heir of Thror sit upon the throne of those Blue Mountains?!”

 

“His name is Thorin, son of Thrain, heir to the lost kingdom of Erebor,” The wizard tells him in a dry and heavy voice, “But there is much trouble in his own realm to be dealt with before any aid can come to you and yours.”

 

“You mean to say, that even if we wait, they will not answer?” the small figure barks, his lips thinned into a firm pale line. His green eyes narrowed and his small tanned fists balled so tight the knuckles were stark white.

 

His ever flaring anger towards the other races burning hot and bright like a wild fire. He's tried, by the good mother he has tried, to keep an unbiased and open heart—and mind—to all despite the dark tidings now upon him and his people. He tried to find the silver lining to ever dark cloud thrown over them. He tried to reason that there was good in the world. That someone would help that anyone would offer their hand towards them.

 

He tried to reason, really, he tried. But then this. This where no one wanted to help. No one wanted to hear how his people were on the precipice of extinction. That they were dying, starving, being pummeled day in and night by the dark axes of war.

 

In the end, no one cared for the future of the race known as Hobbit's. No one cared. Not the Men—who were the first to scoff at his peoples blight—or the Elves cared. The Dwarves could not be bothered to uphold the treaties long since placed that ensured loyalties on both sides.

 

No one cared...

 

No one except…

 

“Is there no other option?” the question once again falls from his lips. Though now it is flooded in resignation and heavy in it's regret.

 

“There is not, they are the only who agree to an alliance. They are the only ones who will help your people here and now,” the aged man tells him, his voice hard and determined. Willing the smaller creature before him to see that this was there only one and true option.

 

There was no other way.

 

“Can they be trusted?” the hobbit asks, his trembling fingers carding roughly through his sweat dampened curls.

 

“They can,” The wizard answers easily and without hesitation, steadfast surety riddled in his words, “They are a dangerous race, to be sure, but which race can now—on the eve of these dangerous days—not warrant such accusations.”

 

“But they are...” the small figure trails off, his eyes glanicng about the tent as if expecting someone to have suddenly appeared, “they are... **Orcs**.”

 

“And they are the only ones willing to offer your people their protection,” the wizard says firmly. Leaving little room to argue about his words.

 

Still, the small figure is anything if not argumentative, “Yes, but I hold no illusions that their protection is offered from the goodness of their hearts.”

 

Shaking his silver hair, the magical man rubs a tired hand down his wrinkled face. For a brief moment he wishes not for this Thain who was—much to the hobbits credit—entirely too smart for his own good. For a moment, the old man wishes this issues had not come to a head in this Thian's rule. Instead, he wishes for the wild smile of a Took girl who saw reason quick and easy.

 

It would have been easier if he had brought this offer of peace, of alliance, of protection and security to that Thain's feet. It would have been easier had it been the mother and not the son. The son was all too prone to his mothers anger and his fathers conniving mind. He sighed heavily to himself.

 

“They ask for...” he stalls, his eyes shifting away from the heavy weight of the others and focuses on the bushels of flowers hanging upside down over the entrance of the beige tent.

 

“What do they demand?” the Thain grits out, his body bracing itself as if to receive a blow from a coming enemy.

 

With a sad realization the wizard comes to accept that—in that small involuntary action by the man—the soft kindly race he'd once known was long since gone. In its place sat a shade of their present selves. Shades that were as wild as the lands they tended to keep themselves in. shades that held no lands in name and were often times neglected. Shades that had abandoned their peaceful ways and clothed themselves in the violence of their reality. Shades that were more likely to hold swords these days than any hoe or flower.

 

Shades that had so very much lost the way of their Creator.

 

“They demand nothing Thain,” the wizard tersely replies, “What they ask...”

 

“At the threat of this offer turning to ash should we deny them.”

 

“What they ask,” the wizard ignores the barbed words and continues as if never interrupted, “Is a partnership forged in blood.”

 

“Blood?” the Thain repeats, his face awash with confusion.

 

“The hierarchy of Orc's are much different than most races. There are no royal lines among them. No kings and queens or rulers chosen simply because they are born from previous rulers.” the wizard easily explains.

 

“Then how do they choose who among them shall lead, or, are they leaderless?” the Thain asks, fear beginning to take hold of him at all the potential wrong that could go wrong should they enter this...agreement.

 

Shaking his head, yet again, the wizard mumbles, “They decide upon their leader based simply on the beings strength of arms. To the strongest goes the throne.”

 

“Then how would we secure a treaty between us. Who would sign or approve? Their King but Not-King? I don't believe I understand,” the Thain whispers, dark whispers of suspicions gnawing at the back if his mind. The anxiety that had long since been growing now making his heart beat wildly.

 

“A marriage,” the wizards tells him plainly.

 

Sputtering both in shock and outrage the hobbit rises to his unimpressive full height “A marriage?! Surely you jest! You cannot expect me to take such a thing seriously!”

 

“Yes, I do intend for you to do just that!” the Wizard all but shouts. His eyes narrowing and his voice shaking the tent in which they sat in, “It is the only way their leader will honor any agreements you wish to make. Nothing else but matehood is taken so seriously among their kind!”

 

“Matehood?!” the Thain cries. His eyes wide at hearing something so...so...so very barbaric when discussing such things as marriage.

 

“This will unify your people and theirs in a bond of blood. Ensuring their loyalty and protection to you and yours. It is their way, and your only choice,” the wizard tells him as easily as if to say the Thain no longer had any wine and was free to drink water as a second substitute.

 

“Marriage, marriage to whom exactly?” the Thain demands. His green eyes lost to his rage and inability to see any of this as rational thinking.

 

“To their current Leader, Lord and Master: Azog the Defiler,” the wizard announces grimly and with a pained expression across his brow.

 

“Azog!” the Thain screeches out in an undignified shrill cry, “You wish for one of us to marry that...that—that THING?! I think not! No, never!”

 

“Then what?!” the Wizard roars, jumping to his tall—and very impressive—height, towering over the small hobbit, “What do you suppose in all your great wisdom?! Gondor is at war and cannot spare their men or resources. Rohan has not recovered from their last invasion and is no use to anyone. The Iron Hills will help none but to those of their kin. Those in the Blue Mountain ignore you. The woods of Green will not fight that which does not involve their realm. The Imladris will not enter into treaties with your kind, I suspect, based on your past with the Dúnedain, despite what ever Lord Elrond may say. The realm of Lothlorien has already taken in much of the refugees left wandering, they cannot take your people. What do you suppose we do?!”

 

“There is nothing we can do,” The Thain whispers on a shaky exhale. His back hunching in as he laid a tired hand on his brow, “So much has been lost...too much… We are not the same folk that was chased out of the green hills. Our numbers are lacking. My people starve every day. Children are wasting away before my eyes,” he tells the ancient being, his voice cracking on the truth of it all, “And there is nothing I can do, but offer salvation to what remains of us to the hands of Orcs?”

 

Heaving out a great big and heavy sigh, the grey robed man hobbles over to the trembling hobbit and places a warm hand on his shoulder. Silently he sends as much strength as he can through this gentle squeeze, “As a leader of people, one must often make the hardest of decisions for the good of their own.”

 

“You ask me to condemn one of my own to this abomination...this _matehood_ ,” and how he spat the word was like bile on his tongue.

 

“Do you see any other way Bilbo?” the wizard asks, his eyes serious as ever Bilbo had seen them. The young mischief often found there replaced by sorrow.

 

Taking a deep breath he wrangles his scattered thoughts and straightens the vest of leather armor over his chest, “I do not, Gandalf.”

 

“Then it must be done.

 

“And it shall.”

 

“Who shall you choose?” the wizard asks, his grip slipping from the suddenly straightened shoulder.

 

With a shake of his head the Thain, Bilbo Baggins, carefully walks over to the mouth of the tent. Careful, war hardened, hands push aside the thick material till his eyes can take in the sight of his village. Well, it wasn't really a village. It was merely a spot in which all had agreed was a good a place as any to settle down if only for a while. The tents all set on temporary spokes, the fences made of trees and rope. Nothing was ever really tied down and made sturdy in case they needed to flee in a hurry. But, it was as close to a village as his people could get.

 

“I will choose none.” Bilbo finally answers as his eyes rake over the warriors sharpening their swords. What few children lived were spotted among the wild ponies they kept. He could almost make out the careful sound of someone playing a fiddle in the distance. He wished more than anything to be out there with his people rather than in here with this mess.

 

Oh how he wished his mother had survived and he was once again made a simple captain. The rigid demands of leadership were not made for him.

 

“Must we go through this again Bilbo Baggins!” the wizard roared, frustration inflaming his words.

 

“I will choose none,” he repeats with tight lips and a glare he releases the tent flap and fixes his eyes on the wizard, “I will not force this on any of my people. I will not take the only thing they still posses to themselves, their freedom to choose. I will ask if any are willing to do such a thing.”

 

“And if none are willing?” the wizard prods, “Will you decline the offer?”

 

“If none are willing then we will done as we always have,” Bilbo, the Thain of what remained of his race, grimly set his face and spoke slow in his doom, “We will Endure.”

 

“Yes, but for how long?” Gandalf whispered against the silence.

 

The words heavy and wretched as they pounded against his heart. His traitorous mind supplying in their dark depths, _'Not for very long.'_


	2. Slow Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we meet key players in this story: The General and The Lieutenant.  
> Also, where The Thain comes to a sudden dark revelation.  
> Orc standards of beauty are contemplated...somewhat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much happens in this chapter. It's just a way to introduce my OFC.  
> But I hope you guys like it!  
> Please, Enjoy!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Phrases said or used in Hobbitish - I.E. Latin.  
> (Idk why, but I very much like the idea of painting Hobbits as dark skinned with a latin vibe. But then again, I am dark skinned and Latin, so maybe I'm being biased.)
> 
> 1) ::The Bounders – those who form the last line of defense along the boarder of their camps.
> 
> 2) ::The Legulus – The Gatherers – these are in charge of finding food: hunters and gatherers all the same.
> 
> 3) ::The Stlattas – Rovers – scouts of sort. These are often found spread out in small squadrons out past the boarder running to the Bounders and back over to the Death Weavers.
> 
> 4) ::The Mors Textores – The Death Weavers – Warriors stationed out and away from camp. Hunting Orc, Goblins, or Men—any who pose danger—to the camp.
> 
> Quotes:
> 
> 5) :: Impii Ethnici – Godless Heathens – seems a fitting insult. Though, I like to think she meant to say 'Valar-less Heathens' rather than God.
> 
> 6) :: Laudate bonum Mater – Praise the Good Mother! - kind of like saying 'Oh thank god!' only, you know, not.
> 
> 7) :: Per Matrem – By our Mother -
> 
> 8) :: Projectus canibus – Honorless Dogs!
> 
> 9) :: Belua – Beast, Fiend, Monster like
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

—X—

 

 

It is long into the night that he allows his body to slump in his chair and feel the heavy weight of the days events. The great wandering wizard has gone. The dust of his horse long since settled. For he stayed not a moment longer to offer the Thain any advice on how to go about telling his people of this...this _offer_.

In the safety of his tent, under the soft light of his lamps, he allows his shoulders to droop and his head to drop in weariness. Slowly he rubs at his temples in a feeble attempt to fight off the throb quickly building in his head.

The good Thain had hoped that with some solitude—away from his loyal soldiers and faithful kin—his mind would clear. He had hoped with some silence and stolen moments to himself the answer to this big mess would become clear to him. He had hoped….but things ever rarely came from doing something so useless. He makes no mistake, recognizing immediately, that instead of finding answers for himself—and his people—he has merely wasted good time.

Time which he could have spent organizing 1) _The Bounders_ further out, inspecting and strengthening their temporary boarders. Time he could have spent speaking to  2) _The L_ _egulu_ _s_ to see whether or not their supplies have been restocked or, if once again, they have been left to rely on their stores. Time he could have spent sending word to  3) _The Stlattas_ to see whether or not Goblins, Orcs or Men have been seen heading towards their way. Time he could have spent sending aid to The  4) _Mors Textores_ for they had not been home in some while.

Time he could have spent...not thinking about how hopeless their situation really was. With a great big sigh, he tosses his head back to rest upon the back of his chair. His eyes wearily staring up at the intricate flower drawings painted across his tent ceiling. Slowly his mossy eyes wander over the petals of silver, the rich hue of crimson, the vivid shades of yellow and blue. He thinks, this must be his fathers greatest of works. A mural that spoke of love, devotion, fidelity, passion, friendship and strength. A mural for his mother. A mural that he inherited when he took the title Thain and thus the Thain's tent.

There is no sound that announces the arrival in the other. Or, maybe, there was but so engrossed in his fathers delicate drawings he heard not a single thing. Still, like a ghost this person arrives. Their voice, a husky rumble against the silence, breaks his solitude.

“What news did the Old Man bring?”

Without his consent, the ends of his lips are tugged up into a rueful smile at the sound of such words. How long had it been since he'd last heard such a voice. Months now, for she always drove her squad hard and never relented to allow herself rest. Months where he had been left alone without her council. Months where she had not been around to bicker with one another over what was right and what he was doing wrong. Months where his General was very much missed.

“Unwanted news,” he murmurs, eyes half lidded but fixed up at the ceiling.

With a scoff his General tells him, “Is that not the _only_ kind he carries. The Mischief Maker.”

Laughing, he straightens himself up and turns his gaze upon his most Loyal ally. What he finds is a warrior. A warrior only his race could produce. A warrior built of the vicious trails they have face. A warrior born from the blood of war. A warrior raised to the sounds of war drums. A warrior breed to defend. A warrior who had sworn her loyalty, her life, to him and his the moment he took on Thainship.

She is tall, for their kind, standing toe to toe with him. Her inky tresses have been tied back into a twirling braid at the center of her head and running down to the tips of her shoulders. Her skin—thought stained with the drawings that were usually found upon a soldier of her station—is the soft shade of scattering sands, a beautiful shade of toasted cinnamon. Her eyes are the hues of toasted almonds while holding her lines penchant for being ever large and wide. Though they sat on high cheek bones which allowed them to slant in a way that showed her ancestry.

His general is built with muscle and not fat that once was so highly upheld. His general sports scars in place that once were not ever dared to be show cased in the public view. She stands in black leather armor that binds her breasts down and protects her chest. Though, it falls short just where ribs end and bared her stomach. She wore black casings on her forearms and shins with designs of thorns harshly etched in. At her back sit two swords overlapping so that they form an X. Two smaller, hook shaped knives, sit at her hips on either side. The black cloth tathers she deems a skirt no doubt hide more weapons.

For his general is quite infamous for carrying more on her than a whole squadron could.

“You are a welcomed sight,” he tells her lowly.

Briefly, a smile tilts her deeply colored lips until they spread a familiar smirk across her sharp featured face. It is no secret that his General could have any of the few men in their tribe with a crook of her slim—deadly—fingers. The Thain knows she need only smile and she'd have more than just the men at her feet and in her bed. His General is beautiful in the way Hobbit's deemed it. Her dark skin, her tall build, her sharp mind and whip like tongue. She is beautiful in the way her lips are round and pouting—forever giving off the impression that she is scowling—the edges of her lips darker than the inner padding’s. She is beautiful in the way her limbs are slim but toned with hidden strength. She is beautiful in every way his kind now praise.

She is beautiful.

But for all her beauty he is well aware of how much more she is deadly.

“So, I am the first to come to you and not my sister?” she asks, a bite to her voice that shows she is teasing.

At the mention of the 'sister' he cringes. His face scrounging up in distaste at the thought.

Laughing, a nice and airy laugh, his General comes forward and claps him—hard—on the shoulder, “What is it between you two? You got along as children, raised side by side, might as well have been birthed by the same womb!”

“Pray, do not even say such perversions,” he grumbled, scrubbing hard at his face as his general continued to laugh at his expense. Once the unease on his shoulders ebbed away a bit, he turned to her seriously and asked, “What news from your travels then?”

“The lands have been quiet. No 5) _Impii Ethnici_ lurk about near our Boarders,” she tells him, her tone and voice serious, all teasing lightness gone.

A deep and heavy silence befalls them and for a moment. Heavy in all the problems he's trying hard to make sense of. Heavy in all the struggle that threatens to drown him should his feet slip. Heavy in the responsibility that comes with his position, her position. Though he wishes not to speak of it, not to repeat what he's been told by that _wise_ old wizard, he knows he must. He must begin to make preparations. And when better than now, with his most trusted adviser before him, available and not out in the wilds where she normally is.

So with a heavy sigh he says, “Gandalf has brought word to me of a potential alliance.”

“6) _Laudate bonum Mater_!” she whispers harsh and quick. Relief flooding her face, “The Dwarves have agreed?”

“No, they have not,” he says with a shake of his head, the next words all but being bitten out, “The Dwarves cannot be bothered to even answer our letters.”

“What of Lothlorien, will they not allow us shelter in their woods?” she asks, her brows creased and her lips tight in anger.

“They will not. They house already much of their kin and Human's who have lost their homes to the Wars and Battles.”

“Imladris? Elrond?” she asks, a hint of desperation in her voice.

He merely shakes his head at her.

“The Men?” she sounds like how he feels, desperate.

He cannot help the sneer that spreads across his face, “The Men care not for the survival of a few hundred _Halflings_.”

“Will no one help?” she demands of him in a harsh tone that is laced with such rage and violence.

“Did your sister come with you, or did she remain out?” he asks in lieu of answering.

Confused by his question, his general is successfully side tracked when she answers, “She is out in the Healers tents, we brought back the herbs requested.”

“Then, call for her, for what I wish to say would be better heard with both of my most trusted advisers present,” he tells her in a hard tone that, they both knew, was meant for serious matters.

With a quick nod his General takes two steps towards the mouth of the tent and issues a low set of whispered words in their mother tongue.

It doesn't take long for the Generals sister, his reigning Third, his Lieutenant, to come storming in. In one hand a sworded staff sits clutched in a strong war ready hand. The Lieutenant, much like her General, is dressed in dark leather armor—though her's is not black but a deep shade of forest green. Which, in the Thain's humble opinion, went well with his Lieutenant's dark bark colored skin. Eyes, the near shade of her black coarse and kinky curls, bore straight into him.

His Lieutenant, much like her elder sister and General, was beautiful. Beautiful in the way hobbit women now were. Her skin was a lovely shade of deep chocolate that blended in with the thick trunks of the woods. Her hair was long, curls tight, and her body curved in places meant to inspire deep dark lust.

The resemblance between his two hands, his right and his left, was unmistakable. The curve of their nose could be matched. The dark tint to their lips and the heavy pout to them. Their eyes—though two separate shades—were the same wide doe shape.

Both were beautiful and both were a force to be feared upon the open fields.

“You sent for me?” his Lieutenant all but barks, her voice a touch harder than her sisters.

“Yes,” The Thain answers easily enough. Nodding his head and gesturing with a hand for them to take a seat at the two stools available.

“Is this about the Wizard?” his Lieutenant questions, her dark brow arching and a purse to her lips.

“It is.” he answers plainly.

“It must be ill news if both of us,” at this his Lieutenant waves a lazy hand between her and her kin, “must be present for it.”

“Yes, well,” he fumbles, eyes darting away from them as he shuffles in his seat, “It is ill enough that I wish not to repeat it more than strictly necessary.”

“7)Per Matrem, what evil does that blasted old crow bring to us,” his Lieutenant growls. Her beautiful face stern and eyes hard.

“The Dwarves do not answer our letters. They seek not to fulfill the Peace Treaties drawn by King Thror. The Elves will not intervene nor offer their realm as sanctuary. The Men care not for us,” The Thain repeats again, his head dropping to rest his chin against his chest.

“8) _Projectus canibus_!” the Lieutenant snarls. Her grip on her bladed staff white knuckled. A fire burning dark and deadly in her eyes.

With a sharp wave of her hand, the General reigns in her younger sisters anger easily, her voice steady as her gaze as she questions her leader, “What of the allegiance you spoke of. The one the Wizard has brought to us.”

“The wizard,” he begins, the heavy weight of leadership wishing to make his shoulders droop. But he holds fast. He is a Baggins of Bag-End, so few hold this name anymore, and he would make his father proud. Forcing his posture straight he levels his Second with a look that spoke of his authority, “He wishes to align us with those who have spurned the call of the Growing Dark.”

“Orcs?!” his Lieutenant screeches, jumping out of her seat and towering over him. As much as his Lieutenant was younger than him by two decades she towered over him by three fingers, as well as her older sibling.

“This is madness! There is no alliance to be had with 9) _Belua's_! They are mindless creatures who lust for nothing more than to kill and devour their enemies!” his Lieutenant shouts. Her eyes are murderous, “This is what comes from the help of Wizards!”

“We have no other choice,” he bites, his gaze like knives and his tone as wicked as the elvish blade at his side, “We will not survive another winter on the roads. We number only one hundred, give or take, thirty of those are children. Will you risk their lives on the open plains. No land is welcoming to our presence. They fear the Goblin Filth that chase us!”

“So you're solution is to hand us over to the Orcs?!” his Lieutenant demands, voice high in rage and disbelief.

“They offered their protection, their lands and their resources to food,” The Thain argues, “Gandalf said even after the marriage land will be given to all those who wish it. That means we will no longer be a race without homes.”

The silence that follows his words is so abrupt it startles him. He was panting, heat pushing down on his face and making seat bead on his brow. A ring echoes in his ears that makes him twitch his left ear as he looks over the two before them. All the while, wondering, what he's said that's rendered them speechless.

“Marriage,” the word is whispered by his General. Her brown eyes wide and face slack from shock. Even the ever present grip on her hooked knives has slipped.

“The Wizard expects you to marry an Orc?!” his Lieutenant roars, her dark face beginning to show a tint of red.

Shock fills him at her words because, till this very moment, he had been sure that he was not even considered an option. He had been so sure, having the arrangement already involved a male Orc—and he wishes not even to repeat the name in his own mind—that he was knocked clear out of the running. For maybe Orc's, for all their wicked ways, were just like the Men-folk when it came to the love of man to man or woman to woman. He had not even thought to ask Gandalf what was to be expected of the choices.

“I—I do not...I don't know if it is in fact me who shall be wed,” he tells them truthfully. A suddenly growing anxiety twisting at his belly. A strange cold feeling prickling at his fuzzy little toes.

“What do you mean?” his General questions, her sister long since lost to spitting curses in their Native Tongue.

“The Orc he has spoken to, the one who will be the one to accept such an arraignment, is,” he offers slow and quiet, dreading the words soon to come, “Azog.”

“Azog?!” the two sisters cry out identically.

Wincing at the high pitch they have managed to reach, he nods shortly.

“As in Azog the Defiler?!” his Lieutenant shouts, her eyes wide as sunflower heads, “As in the greatest general to the Darkness’s Army?!”

Again, he merely nods.

“As in Azog the mightiest calamity to wield a sword? Azog the Pale Death?! Creation of Morgoth himself?!” His Lieutenant cries, voice dripping in hysteria.

Waving her arm again, in a cutting motion, his General calls for silence and receives it easily. Her dark brows are pinched and her expression worried as she asks her Thain, “Your wizard wishes to tie you to such a 9) _belua_?”

Worrying his bottom lip, as he had a penchant of doing when he was nervous, The Thain thinks. He tries hard not to let his nose twitch and give away to his General that he is utterly and truly flustered by this revelation. A revelation he had not thought to think on. That he, their Thain, their leader, could be the one forced to marry such a Monster. It is a cruel fate. One he has never thought would ever be imposed upon him. One he wishes never will be. But he knows, knows with such certainty, that if none else will agree then he shall be the one to answer.

It will fall to him, their Thain, their Leader, to bear all to ensure their survival and comfort. As was his place to do.

He tries hard to keep his calm facade from cracking. Though, in the end he knows, it is all for naught. For his General had been correct, in the beginning. His Lieutenant and he had been raised side by side and his own General—who was but one decade older than he—had done much of the raising to him and her own sister.

“Gandalf did not specify whether or not it would be me, or who exactly, would be a viable option,” he tells them in a murmur.

“An option?” his General repeats.

Nodding he explains, “I said I would leave such a decision up to my people. I will not force any into this should they not want it.”

“And if none shall want it?” his General questions him, her gaze holding his. Her eyes searching his own for any deceit that lay within.

“Then I will be the one to do this, for the sake of our people.” the words sat heavy and thick on his tongue. Dread growing cold and wet at the pit of his stomach.

“None will accept,” his Lieutenant announces from where she's pacing at the foot of his small cot.

“We have not asked—” he begins only to be cut off by the harsh twin looks he receives by his Hands, “Then it shall fall to me.”

“It cannot,” his General's voice is harsh against the slowly settling tone. Her eyes are narrowed as she pulls them off of him and over to the mouth of the tent.

“It must and it shall if none are willing. I should not have ever entertained...pawning off such a grave responsibility to another. My place is to ensure the wellness of us all even at the expense of my own,” he tells her, his mothers words echoing in his head. The Sacred Oath ringing in his ears.

Shaking her free curls his Lieutenant argues, “You cannot, you idiot, you are needed here. The clans would split and then where would we be?”

“Simply because I would marry Azog,” and he tried his damn best to suppress the cold shiver that ran down his spine at those words, “Would not mean I would leave.”

“You're optimism has always blinded you,” his General sneered, the smile cold on her face as she stood rigid in the mid of his tent, “These are Orcs we speak of, what makes you think they will allow you to stay among us if you are the one to do this?”

“What do you mean?” he asks softly, feeling decades younger, and no doubt looking it—if the softening of his General's features was anything to go by.

“Orc's take what they consider theirs, you will be taken to their settlements. Taken to live alongside your...husband,” she informs him in the same voice she had used to tell him his father had passed on. It was a tone, he was now aware of as an adult, she used to console children. It was a tone she used on him now to soften the blow of her words.

“To much is risked if you are the one to leave,” his Lieutenant tells him, her eyes colored in pitiful resignation to their situation.

“If not me, then who?” he questions after a long stretch of silence.

“Who would they accept?” his General questions, “What would cater to an Orc's...preferences.”

snorting in a show of twisted humor his Lieutenant bites, “Alive seems to be all they need to appeal to them.”

“Gandalf said, that Orc's are not like the other Races. They care not for the pedigree of royal lines, or things as such. They care only for the strength and prowess upon the battlefields. That it is through strength of arms that a leader is chosen,” he tells his advisers. His mind swirling at the new problem at hand.

Lately, he mused, all he ever had were problems and ever rarely any solutions for them.

“Then...would they wish for a warrior from among us?” his Lieutenant asks, her tone light as she too pits her wits to the struggle before them.

Shrugging his shoulders the Thain fumbles, “I know of nothing else that might appeal to them. They are...Orcs.”

pressing firm fingers to her temple his General relents, “Perhaps we shall wait till the return of the wizard before any further actions can be taken.”

A hum is all the Thain offers as his show of agreement.

“What shall we tell the people?” his Lieutenant muses, her eyes fixed on him: awaiting orders.

For as much as his Lieutenant bite, clawed and argued over his decisions she was absolute in her loyalty to him. For this he was grateful.

“We shall tell them...” he begins only to waiver because honestly what could he tell them. What could he say that would not incite panic upon them. The news would surely be met with opposition. Those that still held tight in their Clan's might finally do as they have threatened for a century and splinter off.

In the end he heaves a great big heavy sigh and finally allows his shoulders to drop, “We shall tell them all that we know. I fear if we keep anything from them it would only make any actions in the future all the more difficult.”

“As you say, Thain,” his General bowed her head in a show of respect.

“Please,” he says with a wave, “Alle, I have asked you time and time again not to call me by that.”

With a rueful smile she sends him a look that—had he been only a few years younger—would have ruffled his feathers into silent submission, “As you keep saying, but at the end of the day you are Thain and I am your General and we must call each other so.”

rolling his eyes at her stubbornness, he watches as she corrals her sister up off the stool and over to the exit. As his lieutenant passes him she inclines her head, “Till the morrow, Bilbo.”

His Lieutenant, unlike her older sister, had no qualms over ignoring his title when it pleased her. And he too, in a childish way, found pleasure in ignoring hers, “Goodnight Lobelia.”

And with that his advisers left his tent to his swirling thoughts. No doubt he would be receiving no sleep this night and he held no illusions that the two sisters would either. There was much weighing on them now. Still, he thought, it was easier now that such burdens could be shared with others. Suddenly it didn't feel as if he was drowning underneath it all. For, he had confidence that with the three of them united to find a solution things would surely work themselves out.

 

 

 

 

—X—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
> 1) ::The Bounders – those who form the last line of defense along the boarder of their camps.
> 
> 2) ::The Legulus – The Gatherers – these are in charge of finding food: hunters and gatherers all the same.
> 
> 3) ::The Stlattas – Rovers – scouts of sort. These are often found spread out in small squadrons out past the boarder running to the Bounders and back over to the Death Weavers.
> 
> 4) ::The Mors Textores – The Death Weavers – Warriors stationed out and away from camp. Hunting Orc, Goblins, or Men—any who pose danger—to the camp.
> 
> Quotes:
> 
> 5) :: Impii Ethnici – Godless Heathens – seems a fitting insult. Though, I like to think she meant to say 'Valar-less Heathens' rather than God.
> 
> 6) :: Laudate bonum Mater – Praise the Good Mother! - kind of like saying 'Oh thank god!' only, you know, not.
> 
> 7) :: Per Matrem – By our Mother -
> 
> 8) :: Projectus canibus – Honorless Dogs!
> 
> 9) :: Belua – Beast, Fiend, Monster like
> 
>  
> 
> *~*
> 
> Okay, so just a few things. I hardly doubt Elrond in all his wisdom and compassion would not have harbored the Hobbits. Same thing goes for Galadriel. It just doesn't fit, right?  
> Obvi! Duh!  
> But this is fanfic where we can turn fandoms upside down and get away with it.  
> So in this Everyone, and I do mean Everyone, is looking out for only their own. Elves included.  
> The story I'm going to write will have major key pints swapped about making for a darker turn of events.  
> Hopefully none of you guys get offended too much.  
> Anywhoooo, Please comment and let me know what you think.  
> I'd love to hear what you guys think or if you all have any suggestions!  
> ~Ani<3
> 
> P.S. Does anyone know what Azog's warg might be named?  
> Also, does anyone know of a good reliable site that accurately translates Black Speech?  
> Thanks.


	3. Within the Lost Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a brief little chapter on Azog. Kinda touches on why Orcs, of all creatures, and Azog would even consider the notion of aligning himself with peaceful, in comparison to them, Hobbit folk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ōgżażha the Odious – apparently related to A in someway…..but that's for later on in the story. Made up obviously. :)))  
> Duża – the name I gave the white warg because I never got a response, I considered waiting, but this chapter was so insistent. And I was so excited to update. So, yeah.  
> Yaḡak – a Lowly Orc soldier, no standing position.

 

—X—

 

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

The sound of the wizard's staff echoed off the rock walls of their caves. The sound grating down his spine, making his ears twitch, forcing his upper lip to pull back in a snarl despite the man had not even come into sight.

There is rustling around him. His soldiers, armed and growling, shift in unease. His warg Duża shifts minutely. Her blinding white ears twitch and swivel, narrowing in on the coming potential threat.

“The wizard approaches,” Yaḡak hisses at the foot of his bone throne.

Lazily, he allows his pale blue eyes to fall down to the Orc who dares to announce something so pointless and trivial to him. He has ears, he has a nose, he has a brain. Obviously he knows the Wizard approaches. He can feel the stone of these halls tremble in his wake. He can smell the rancid scent of good emanate from his person. He knows by instinct alone that a powerful being, strong and dangerous, has entered his kingdom. He does not need some lowly weak creature to tell him so.

He needs not answer for his warg does it for him. In the form of a vicious growl and the snap of her deadly teeth. Easily cowed Yagak stumbles back to his place, past his general and his guards. His dark blue head tilted down in submission. His shoulders slumped to show no threat. His scent reeking of fear.

A sneer of disgust paints itself across his pale face.

“Ah, Azog!” the Wizard shouts, once he has entered the great hall of their new home.

Silence is what greets the man. Silence from the Orc and what few Goblins have aligned themselves with him. Silence filled with dark and violent glares aimed his way.

But the staffed man gives no show that he's acknowledged the very hostile environment he's entered.

“How goes all in your….kingdom?” The wizard questions, his gleaming gray eyes wandering over the bone adorned walls of his Throne room.

The Pale Orc merely glares at him from atop his throne.

“I...” the wizard starts, only after he's realized he will not receive any kind of answer from the Pale Leader, “I bring word from the Hobbits.”

Though no emotion other than disgust shows on his face curiosity flares from deep within him. He had cared not for the little race of Halflings when the wizard had come to plead on their behalf. He had cared not that it had once been his own people who had hunted them down. He cared not for them...until…

Well, until he had journeyed out and over to the Misty Mountains to deal with the filth that was the Goblin King. It had been then that he had happened upon those tiny little creatures. Creatures that resembled Men in most ways. Yet, they had moved about the ground on their bare feet. Their ears had been pointed but not in the disgusting ways of the Elf. Theirs had resembled the leave of the trees.

Seeing them, hidden between the trees and brush, he had thought them to be strange folk. For they were small, smaller than men but just as tall as Dwarves, and he had thought them weak. But then, he had seen what they had done to the Goblin Raiders that ventured out of the Gray Stones. He had seen the way they could move swift and deadly. He had seen what they could do at the end of their little swords.

He had seen these strange creatures and a foreign emotion had swelled somewhere beneath his breast.

When the Wizard came yet again, to meddle no doubt, he had listened and he offered his help. That strange emotion swelling at the memory of those creatures hiding in tree's and bushes. Not because he cared, no, but because he was curious. Curious as to what these creatures could accomplish when pushed. And he wanted to push. He wanted to train them in the ways of death and misery. He wanted to see these fair little creatures under the shade of shadows.

What would they look like then, he wondered, to be made into warriors like he knew his own to be. Were they like Men so easily swayed? Or like Dwarves lost to their prides? Or perhaps they were of the Elvish persuasion and were bound tightly by the shackles of their creators?

This strange emotion had swelled in him, tainted him, for several nights after his first glimpse. So strong was this poison in him that he often closed his eyes and in the blackness of his lids he could conjure up the memory of sun baked skin. He often times found himself wondering if such skin were soft, would it scar as prettily as the Orcish women tended to doing to themselves. He wondered if their hair would hold the matted locks that they—him and his orcs—found flattering. His mind would supply fresh imaginings when he was left time to idle on his bone throne whether or not their blood would taste sweet. What would one taste like. Did their fear smell of acid or of fruit. At that his brain would tumble down into darker pits, what would their pleasure smell like, taste like.

This strange emotion—these vile mind consuming thoughts—felt like rot in his mind. Like a perversion to his usually so disciplined state.

But, as true to his Orcish ways, he was not to be denied a thing. Even if such a thing was in fact these vile little creatures with their soft skin dirt colored skin.

As Master and Lord to all those residing in the Lost Halls of Moria his word was absolute. His wants were always fulfilled. His hunger—that of food, wine or carnal pleasures—always sated. His anger was always to be met with a submissive head and his sword never to be blocked. For he was the Pale Rider, the Mutant of the Dark Helms, the Son of Ōgżażha the Odious, the White Orc, he was Azog the Defiler.

If Halflings he hungered for, even if he himself could not understand, it was Halflings he would have.

And so, he listened intently to the word of the wizard, though he looked not like he cared at all.

“They have agreed,” the wizard reveals to him.

The moment the words have been spoken he rises to his impressive height. His guard, his most loyal fighters, move with him at once. Quickly he makes his way down the steps and out of the throne room, his Orcs following close behind.

There is much that needs to be prepared. Much that needs to be set ready, food, furs, and carriages to be loaded. Things he must over see himself before he can ride out and gather himself a sun toasted Halfling.

 

—X—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ōgżażha the Odious – apparently related to Azog in someway…..but that's for later on in the story. Made up obviously. :)))  
> Duża – the name I gave the white warg because I never got a response, I considered waiting, but this chapter was so insistent. And I was so excited to update. So, yeah.  
> Yaḡak – a Lowly Orc soldier, no standing position. 
> 
>  
> 
> *~*  
> So what do you all think so far?  
> I'd really like to know.  
> ~Ani<3


	4. Breaking of Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief look into Bilbo's past, Hamfast appears and Bilbo wrestles with the weight of Thainship.  
> A decision is ultimately made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one kind of wrote itself. It took itself into a whole new direction I was not expecting it to go. But there it goes like a runaway train that I cannot look away from.  
> Please enjoy!

—X—

Okay, just so that no one is confused, or not more than usual: Hobbits were forced out of the shire after they lost the Battle of Greenfields. Though Bullroarer beheaded the—then—Goblin King there were enough Goblins to still slaughter the normally docile race. Despite the hobbits having left the land, the Goblins were kind of vengeful, in that they chopped down the trees of every forest and farthing that stood. The green rolling hills were set ablaze until it was ensured that the hobbits would be left to wander without any chance of ever returning. Bree too, in the whole mess, fell.

Because they cannot go to Rivendell, Blue Mountains, or any such places they were forced out to the foothills of the Misty Mountains—though, they tend to call them the Gray Mountains—between the Ettenmoors—or Trollshawls.

Since the goblins that attacked the shire actually came down from the Ettenmoors they now reside along the scorched land of the Shire. Because of this, in my canon, the Ettenmoors is relatively empty and the only true danger lies within the Misty Mountain and not at the base.

It think that's it for now.

So….

ACTION!!!!

—X—

A week after the wizard leaves he tells his people of their turn of events.

Telling the Tribe about the negotiations proves to happen just as Bilbo had thought it would: Dreadful. The old Clans, what remains of the Tooks, Brandybucks, Stoor's Bricegirdles and even the head of the Proudfoot's—agree with him in his decision to accept the offer. Well, at least, _somewhat_. The food stores have been depleted. What still stands from the long since dead Shire, no longer yields good food. The land has been poisoned by the many years of Goblin and Orc bleeding into it. The lands at the foot of the Blue Mountains prove to be even harder to tame. The Lands to towards the Hidden Valley is all but off limits. They are stuck now with sitting at the foot of the Gray Mountains covered in their Mist with their backs against the Ettenmoors. The lands here are not kind to them in their inhabitants nor in their environment.

Caught between Trolls and Goblins.

They have but no choice—these days—but to scavenge in the last bit of free lands between boarders. Running and hiding through shadows to keep from being eaten or killed. So they agree—the Tooks, Brandybucks, Stoor's, Bricegirdle's, and that one head Proudfoot—that this is their only viable option. An option that may yet yield food, an option that may allow them to cloak their children in furs and not leaves. An option that may help them not die. An option that allows for protection should the Goblins come down like they did that savage Winter.

It is an option that has become—after all these hard near two hundred years of calamity—their **only** option for survival. This is the only option should they all wish to  survive. For they know, they are aware now that the Death Weavers have come back, that there is a darkness on the winds.

Orc's and Goblin's have been seen fighting amongst themselves. There is talk of armies being amassed out towards the Dark Lands. There is talk of Azog obtaining a legion of his own. A legion now holding hard to the lost realm of Moria. There is talk that second army too, begins to rise from behind the Black Gates. There is talk of a coming war that the wizard keeps warning about but always answers in vague riddles.

A storm is coming.

They can feel it on the wind.

And they know, even if the rest do not all agree, they will not weather it well.

At least, not without this. This ensures that they survive.

_'But at what cost?!'_ a Bolger elder had cried.

_'There can be no guarantee that they will even upheld these talk of peace!'_ another had yelled, most probably someone from the Cotton way.

_'You cannot expect any of us to volunteer for such a thing! Least of all our daughters!'_ a Pincottle woman had shouted, four of her six daughters standing at her shoulders.

_'It is unnatural! A perversion to even entertain such a thing as marriage to such a foul beast! It is not our way!'_ a Masoner bellowed.

_'You yourself must be perverse to have even agreed! I will not agree to have one of our own lay with one of those heathens!'_ a Donder girl had screamed out.

Through it all he had managed to keep a level head. In his mind he had envisioned how his father would have handled it. His father would have been proud of his polite smiles, humble nods and patience. But then he knows he had, in small ways, channeled his mothers conniving wit. A wit that had helped him to change the direction of every argument. A wit that had allowed him to cut through every insult and outraged demand flung his way.

Yes, he knows his parents would have been proud of his control over the whole ordeal.

And yet, he knows not what they would think of their son bending so hard underneath all this oppression. He wonders if his mother would have said yes as easily as he did. He wonders if maybe his father would have tossed the wizard out by the beard. He wonders if, not for the first night since agreeing, if he is doing the right thing.

But he knows, having looked out over them all while he had announced it all, their numbers have much depleted. Where once round bellies had been prized and sought after he found hard lines and hips bones. Where once soft round cheerful faces rang wide and clear on them all; there could only be found hard and stern faces usually lined in paint made from dirt, fruit and plants. Where once they could be found in little vests and cozy smials, they now were finding homes in shades of trees and adorned in swords and armor.

Much has changed among his people.

Much, it seemed, would continue to do so.

And he, more than anyone, would change it ever so.

“Something the matter Young Master,” a voice rang out, stilling his jaded thoughts in one fell swoop.

With a huff he turns his head from where he has staring into the fire and looks out and over the flames to the man before him. What greets him is the simple visage of one Hamfast Gamgee. And, of course, that's who he'd find that would call him by such a silly title.

Hamfast, Bilbo dares to muse, is a handsome hobbit. A hobbit with simple but sturdy features. His eyes are a soft shade of brown, like tea leaves. His chin strong and his shoulders broad. His chest is firm with muscle from the long days of work he bears. His curls are a deep shade of chestnut and have been pined back into a lazy half pony tail, the end rolled upon like a little bun. Still, there are a few rebellious curls that fall out to frame his golden face. Bilbo knows, with a guilty set on his chest, that there are freckles that dust over the bridge of Hanfast's nose in the shape of the 'Great Hunter'. He knows, again with a heavy stone upon him, that the soft specklings fall down the strong nape of his neck to sprinkle over his shoulders.

Without a doubt, Bilbo thinks, Hamfast is a handsome man indeed.

When they had been younger, and Bilbo had not bared such a heavy title as Thain, Hamfast and he had had a future between each other. They had held each others hands. Stolen kisses behind bushes. Midnight visits to each others tents.

The other's of the tribe had no doubt expected them to make an announcement of their union, of their Bond.

And, maybe, they would have. Had the Fell Winter not come. Had he not lost his mother and then his father. Had Bilbo not been chosen to lead when they were leaderless. Had all this not happened then perhaps things would have been different

As it were, here he sat alone and there sat Hamfast across the fire a marriage band etched into his forearms.

Bilbo, even in his darkest days, cannot ever feel anything but regret when forced to look upon Hamfasts easy and open smile. Regret because this had been the most honest Hobbit there ever was and Bilbo himself had once held his heart. Regret because he had left Hamfast abandoned and had denied him for the sake of what remained of the Tribe. Regret because it could have been his arm who bore the same bands as Hamfast and not some dark haired girl from the dwindling line of the Goodchild's.

Regret because no matter the long years between what they had and what they have now, Bilbo still wanted.

“I told you to stop calling me that,” he grumbles at the man, allowing the smoke from his lungs to wander out like gray tumbling clouds.

Rolling his amber eyes, Hamfast smiles wide and happy, “Well, are you not still my Master? I have yet to fulfill my thousand year debt to you.”

Despite himself, as always was the case when in Hamfast's presence, a smile spreads across his own pink lips. Because, at the mention of such a debt, the memories of it's making comes to the forefront of his mind. He remembers two sets of bows and an endless supply of arrows. He remembers his General directing them both as to where to keep their arms and where to place their feet. He remembers Lobelia in the background dozing, for she was young and needed not yet to be taught any kind of defenses. He remembers how Hamfast had bested him four shots in a row. He remembers how his pride had swelled and how he had made a bet. Whomever could shoot the most apples out of the tree would have the other to do his bidding till the end of summer. He remembers that Hamfast and he had bickered until the number had reached a thousand years of servitude.

He remembers, with startling clarity, that it had been his General—Allê who had been but a mischievous child then too—who had suggested that the loser must then call the winner Master until the end of days.

He remembers how he had won and Hamfast had grumbled so but reluctantly honored their agreements.

Now, even as they are long since past their age of majority, Hamfast continues to tease him with such a title.

“It was a childhood bet Hamfast,” Bilbo admonishes; though secretly it still pleases him that the title—which now doubled as an endearment—still feel so comfortably from the others lips.

“Yes, but Gamgee's are the kind to keep their word,” Hamfast teased leaning forward to rest his elbows on his bent knees, “In any case there is no way you can stop me from ceasing.”

quirking a brow Bilbo questions, “Oh, is that so?”

“It is,” Hamfast easily states to him, “Tis no way you could ever beat me in a thing these days. You've not been out to a hunt in years. I've doubt you could even wave that pig sticker about. No doubt your bones could not handle lifting a bow for all that you were _'The Great Archer'_.”

To that he merely scoffs, rolls his eyes and stuffs his pipe back firmly between his teeth. He cannot help the smile that spreads reluctantly over his pipe stem at the sound of Hamfast's rumbling laugh.

“It has been a long while since a smile has graced your face. It is a welcomed sight,” Hamfast suddenly announces, when his laughter has faded away and they have settled into a nice comfortable silence.

His words prove to settle a warmth in the pit of his belly as he throws his head back to rest against the log he leans upon. His eyes staring unfocused at the stars that litter the dark sky, “There has been little, these days, to smile about.”

“Nonsense!” Hamfast announces with a harsh wave of his golden tanned hand, “The crops look to be promising, four babes have been birthed these past two months and there is finally talks of an alliance. There is much to smile about.”

“An alliance with **Orcs** ,” Bilbo repeats, the echoes of his tribes shouts ringing in his leaf shaped ear.

Scoffing Hamfast tells him, “Gandalf has faith in them and the wizard may be many great things but he has never led us astray. He came to our aid during the Fell Winter when none others would. He took us west when first we were driven from the Old Lands. He walked with us when we were forced through stone and barren lands. Gandalf has yet to abandon us. And if he says they are to be trusted then I will do as he asks and hear him with an open mind.”

A pause in Hamfast's rant allows him time to lazily lump his head forward and stare unimpeded at the hobbit. Today, much like any other day, Hamfast is to be found in brown trousers made of heavy and thick material. This night he is shirtless. Leather brown straps wrapped tightly over his shoulder and down his left arm ending at his elbow.

“Plus,” Hamfast breathes, his voice now lower and more controlled, “The Weavers bring news of strange happenings outside of the boarders. Goblins have begun to amass under the Gray Mountains. A King they say has been chosen among them with an army to lead. They say the Rangers have retreated from what is left of the Old Lands. Elves have begun to flee into their Gray Havens. They also say...that the earth has begun to tremble. A strange darkness is creeping into the soil and it will not be long until it has spread out across all lands and not just the ones we move upon.”

Heaving a great sigh, he nods his head, “Those Weaver's say too much. But it is true, none the less.”

“Then, what choice do we have in this matter, it is either that we accept or risk perishing,” Hamfast says easily, his glittering eyes saddened by the truth of his words.

The sound of crackling fire, popping moisture off the lit stems, and the chirp of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. Tonight is a fresh night, the winds cooler than those previous, it's enough to have more than one families bundling up under the same tent roof. It is a nice night with a half waned moon that he had thought he could enjoy out from under his tent.

“I cannot help but wonder,” Bilbo mutters to break the silence between them, “if my mother would have agreed to any of it.”

“You're mother was a good Thain, she lead us well and true when the darkest of our days had come and war came upon us often. She always did all that she could for us, her people,” Hamfast nods in approval, his eyes brimming in respect. For a moment, Bilbo thinks that is all he will say on the matter, “Your mother would have done what she needed to do to ensure our safety, just as you are doing.”

“You are a good Thain too Bilbo. You put the betterment of our Tribe over everything, over your own happiness even. You have not ever done wrong by us. You have led us through the famines after the wars. You have found us land that we may yet pull crops from. You may have brought us to the Troll-Fells but we have felt some peace here however brief they may be. You are a better Thain than even your Mother, I would say.”

Tears threaten to tumble past his eyes at his words. Crushing desperation sits upon his chest making drawing a breathe feel difficult and impossible. He wants nothing more than to cross over the fire bed and fall into Hamfast's strong arms. He wants to give voice to his insecurities and tell of the anxiety eating him whole. He wants to speak of his doubt and have someone reassure him for once.

Instead all that he does is offer a watery smile and a jerky nod of his head, “And you, my good friend, are the greatest _Seges Magister_ to date, if my opinion is worth anything on the matter.”

Laughing, loud and happily, Hamfast offers him his crooked little smile, “I fear my father would take great offense to hear that young master.”

Discretely wiping at the corners of his right eye Bilbo sniffles and laughs, “I have no doubt, the day of your ceremony he grumbled that you couldn't tell the head of a potato from a carrot top. That surely you would disgrace my good name with your foolishness.”

Together they laugh losing themselves to happy memories of the past. To the night where wine was brought forth, three boars were cooked and all feasted like the proper tales of old. It had been a happy night. Rare among them all.

When the laughter has ebbed away once more, Hamfast turns to him with a serious gaze that spoke of trust and unwavering absolution, “Have faith Bilbo, as I do.”

“What do you have faith in Hamfast?” Bilbo questions softly, the whisper of words floating just as delicately as the smoke of his weed smoke.

Without preamble or any hesitation Hamfast answers easily, “I have faith in you Master Bilbo.”

The words struck Bilbo into a stupor as he wondered—silently and to himself—if he had any faith in himself.

—X—

Come the morning after the little fireside talk with Hamfast, Bilbo awoke feeling lighter. His shoulders did not feel so heavy with the weight of unyielding responsibility. Though twilight has just really begun to fade, much of the tribe is up. Tents were settled down and stored. What little ponies they cared for were being let free of their pen and taken to the small watering well. He could smell on the wind the beginnings of a fire.

A Sander girl carrying a bow staff slowly makes her way past him. Her red curls bobbing as she dips her head in respect. He conjures a polite smile her way before letting himself begin his duties.

Today he must speak to Hamfast and the Boyder elder to see how much of this years crop will be usable. He must also seek out his General before she slips back out into the wilds. While he's at it, he thinks maybe he should have a word with his Lieutenant. The Head Healer has begun to grumble that she will need to name a successor soon rather than later and that Lobelia was a prime candidate.

In the end he is able to none of that. For the moment he makes it around the first tent a body all but barrels into him. When he catches himself he looks up to find the flustered and wide eyed face of his second. Her dark curls flying wild about her face as she grips him hard on the shoulders.

“Lobelia, what on this green earth are you doing! You nearly knocked me down,” he grumbles at her shaking her strong hands off of himself.

“Gandalf is here,” Lobelia tells him, her lips tight and her brows furrowed as fear burns her eyes.

Fear makes his body jolt. It makes him stand up straighter and to cease all movements though he is tightly held in someones hands.

“Gandalf is here,” Lobelia repeats, “And he brings word from the Orcs.”

Tight lipped Bilbo nods his head. With strength he knew not he held at the moment, he removes himself from his Lieutenant's vice and begins to make his way over to where a crowd seems to have begun forming. For all that they are not that much shorter than Men, if but a couple of heads, Gandalf still manages to make them all seem like children. He towers over the assembling persons. But his eyes do not rest on them—despite a few yelling up at him—he seems to be searching for something, or someone.

When finally deep gray eyes settle upon him does Gandalf move from his position. Quickly his long legs eat up the distance between them and he is standing before Bilbo, his staff clutched dangerously tight in one hand, a faded gray hat wrung in the other.

“We must speak,” Gandalf tells announces without any flourish and when Bilbo makes no motion to move Gandalf, not so tenderly, shoves him at his shoulder, “Now!”

—X—

“They come here?” Bilbo all but shouts, pacing in his tent as Gandalf puffs at his pipe like a bellowing fire.

“When?” his General questions, her eyes hard and her body rigid. Her posture looking as if she is about to set out to battle this very instant.

_'No doubt, that is what she must feel is about to happen,'_ Bilbo idly muses. For they did not ever deal with Orc's or any of their ilk on friendly terms. It was always by the end of a sword. The point of an arrow and the blunt side of a staff.

“They were not but two days ride behind me, though, I have no doubt they will be here come midday,” Gandalf tells them in a great cloud of smoke, “It was only by the will of magick that I was able to spur my mare on faster than their wargs. Without it I would have surely arrived late rather than early.”

“They come with wargs?” Lobelia growls from where she guards the tent entrance.

Nodding Gandalf look her way, “Twenty Orc soldiers atop twenty Gundabad wargs.”

“Why?!” Bilbo screeches.

Bushy gray brows knit the wizard demands of him, “Did you not agree to their terms?! I merely went to them to announce that you had. Now they come for the one promised to their Lord.”

“I did not think it would happen so soon. It is but only a few days since you had gone. I have yet to...to...” for all that Bilbo is known for his silver tongue, his words fail him now as he stares at the wizards quickly paling face.

“Bilbo, child, the White Orc is among those who come,” the Wizard announces, the news twirling his empty stomach, “You must choose one among them now. It has been near nine days since I left here and they will expect one of your own to have been selected.”

“I cannot simply choose someone among my own!” Bilbo screams, his face feeling the heat of his rumbling emotions, “How can you expect me to, in all good conscious damn one of my kin to such a vile fate. To be a wife or husband to an Orc?! I cannot Gandalf, I cannot!”

“The decision has been left to their own making,” Lobelia shouts at the wizard, her ire rising as she witnesses the mental disintegration of her Leader, “Bilbo has done honorably as a Thain to not force anyone's hand.”

“Honorable though it may be, someone must be offered to Azog! He cannot arrive here and find your end of the agreement lacking! He will raze what is left of your people to the ground! Bilbo, please, see sense!” Gandalf bellows jumping from his seat.

Silence, thick and heavy, akin to those that come before the break of a storms first thunder envelope them. None speak as the tension sits upon their shoulders like mountain stone. Gandalf is heaving, his pipe lost on the floor, the embers spilled over. Lobelia has her spear before her as if she is about to jump into a live battle. Bilbo stands trembling, his hands balled into tight fists as he glares the wizard down.

And then, like the first abrupt and deafening crack of thunder, the Storm begins its descent.

“I will do it,” his General's voice rings out.

 

 

—X—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any of those reading and wondering how to pronounce Alle's name let me tell you all a couple of things first.  
> I'm bilingual, in that I speak English primarily and Spanish too, my family is Mexican American. I thought of naming my Made Up Little Hobbit something hispanic as a small homage to my heritage. But then I thought, no, better not. I'm already screwing with yall's Tolkien Reality so very hard lets not do more damage than strictly necessary.  
> So, I settled on a nickname from a spanish name: Alejandra is the real name, but, Ale is the nickname that one might often call a person named Alejandra.  
> If you are having trouble pronouncing it in your head I recommend you listen to Lady Gaga's song: 'Alejandro' and listen to the way she stutters over his name. “Ale-Ale-Alejandro”. The way she says “Ale” is the way my made up Hobbit Girl's name is pronounced. 
> 
> Latin/Hobbitish used:  
> Seges Magister – Crop Master, Hamfast is technically in charge of the crops, the food production, harvesting, storing and distribution. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, drop a comment down below.  
> I'd really love to hear from you guys.  
> Hope you all continue reading my little abomination!!!  
> -Ani<3  
> P.S. If anyone is willing to voice their opinions, I was debating whether or not I should have Azog as his regular missing hand self or make it so he has both. Because, too be honest, I don't know if I can romanticize a metal claw hand. So, yeah, if any can let me know. It would be greatly appreciated.


	5. Talk Between Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allê must explain why she volunteered to her little sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've made it so that Hobbits age just like dwarves. So the day of majority is not 33 but more like 63 since they live to be about two hundred or so, if, they do not die in battle or such. But, since they are a people forced to live on the wilds and battle happens more often than not, 45 is about the age most are considered grown enough. This will later be touched upon with Bilbo when he's on his journey with the Dwarrow folk.  
> Right now, I humbly ask you all just along and don't throw stones at me. Well, at least, not yet. :)
> 
> Latin Translations:  
> 1) :: Caput Genere – Head General

—X—

Life in the Tribe is rather simple. There are no set rules for the way things must be. Women and Men can hold a wide variety of duties for hobbits do not hold the same views of the Men-folk. It is not uncommon for some of the women to leave the shelter of the village heart and become soldiers. It is not looked down upon for the men to stay behind and raise the children. It is also, not uncommon to see, men and women never marry but entertain physical relationships. Things like this are often met with a simple shrug. Because, honestly, who had the time to care about such trivial things as gender roles, sexual orientation or what was deemed respectful by the Men when they were running from trolls and fighting off goblins.

So when she had announced she had wanted to be a soldier, a Bounder, and defend their people no one had batted an eye. They—the tribe—had thought it was only natural, for, her nature tended to be more on the aggressive side than anything else. The next day her mother had marched her down and tossed her to the trainers.

And there indeed did she flourish. Her body moved in quick fluid motions. Her swords and knives an extension to her own flesh and blood. Before she could even turn her fifty second summer she had proven herself as an apt student of warfare. It wasn't long before she was promoted to Rover and from there moved out to the Death Weavers. After that, the tribe thought it only natural, that she be handed the title of General.

As general she has seen much in her long one hundredth and thirty years of life. She has seen more battles than she can count. She had pledged herself to a good Thain and watched her fall in the Winter War. She has pledged herself to her late Thain's son. She has witnessed famine, strife and winter ravage her people. She has seen many a trolls break through the defenses and trample tents. She has seen much and a darkness grows in her heart that assures her they will continue to see more if things continue as they are.

When she had first taken up the Title of 1) _Caput Genere_ —Head General—she had taken the solemn oath that went with it. An oath that swore her life to the tribe. An oath that said she pledge all of her fidelity, all of her love, all of her life for the protection and betterment of theirs. She swore that for as long as she held a breath in her she would defend them. She swore to them all, under the Great Took Thain, that she would not let them go hungry and that children would once again grow round and happy.

These days, those oaths weighed like ash on her tongue. It has been many a decades since she last spoke them before the eyes of her—then alive—mother, past Thain and even the elders. But she remembers that moment every night. She remembers those words every time a child walks by and his ribs peak out. She remembers those words when she has to bury her comrades in the rotted woods they creep in.

She remembers the words of her oath when she stands in Thain Bilbo's tent. She remembers them and the guilt, the soul crushing guilt, makes it hard to breath. She cannot stand the way Bilbo's mossy green eyes have paled. The way his back is hunched like a caged wild animal. Desperation screams in his tone as he argues that he cannot simply name a tribe member. She remembers the oath as Lobelia looks wildly about until her eyes fall upon her searching—pleading—for her to make a solution suddenly appear.

The words of her Oath are what spurs her into speaking out. She repeats them over and over in her head to drown out the cries of protest that leave her little sisters mouth. The words of the oath are what she clings to when Bilbo begins to argue with her. Those words are what she finds her resolve in when the wizard peers into her eyes and then nods.

Those words are what she clutches to now as she sits in her tent, waiting.

Waiting for the Orcs and wargs to arrive.

Waiting for the sealing of her fate.

—X—

“Why did you volunteer?!” the sound of Lobelia's voice, usually so soft and airy, is as sharp as the sword sitting in her working hands.

Without raising her eyes from her sharpening stone and sword, she speaks, “Because it is my duty.”

“Fuck it is!” Lobelia bellows.

She cannot help the way her head snaps up at the words. Nor can she help the way her eyes narrow into dangerous slits, “Take care of your tone little sister.”

“Why did you volunteer?!” Lobelia demands from her again. Her hair flaring about her head wildly.

It has been many a year since last Allê has looked upon her younger sibling and seen her for her true age. Long gone were the soft little dresses colored the soft shade of a faded rose. Long buried are the teasing smiles of a girl who wanted for nothing but to rile the 'Baggins Boy'. Long has it been since Allê has last heard Lobelia sing under the rise of a raging red sun.

Her young sister had grown right before her eyes and Allê had all but missed it. Long gone was the girl with gangly arms and frizzy hair. Before her now stood a beautiful woman with the blood of warriors racing through her veins.

Memory slowly tips itself back in her mind, conjuring up the images of her younger sister with a concave stomach. Memories where she had to send a young child to bed hungry. Memories of caring for a child when she was busy burying her mother.

Her sister had grown into a strong and fierce warrior. But in times like these, Allê cannot help but remember the child she raised at her own hands. Cannot help but remember that she—Allê—is all that Lobelia has left.

“If not me then who?” she asks, her voice soft but strong the surrounding silence. When Lobelia offers not a single answer she continues on, “What do you think will happen when they come and Bilbo has not chosen a single person. What do you think they will do when none will step forward. Do you think they will simply leave?”

When Lobelia continues her silence Allê finally asks, “Who among us will be taken by force? One of the younger girls of the Brandybuck line? The Orcs will not simply leave should we not have someone. They will take someone by force and maybe more to sate their hungers if we are not careful.”

“So if it is in my power to serve my people, I shall, it is that simple Lobelia,” Allê tells her, her darker eyes boring into her sisters lighter orbs, “You took the same oaths as I...”

“So did everyone else in the tribe! Everyone with a rank has stood before a Thain and sworn to uphold the oaths. And yet, none have stepped forward now. None wish to, none will, why do you have to be the one to do it?!” Lobelia scram, her voice breaking as tear welled in her dark eyes, “Why must **you** be the one to go?”

The heartbreak that resonates through her younger sisters voice serves to splinter her heart. For all that she was prepared to serve her people, lay down her life, without a second thought—she had never even entertained the thought of harming her sister. Years, decades, a near century, of caring after a faunt—who then later became a warrior—has long since engrained in her the instinct to protect, to keep safe and to go without so that she may be well.

It is an instinct that she acts upon like second nature. The reaction knee jerk and effortless.

“I do this, so that it will not fall upon you to do,” she finally tells Lobelia. Her voice a whisper in her tent, her home.

The tears Lobelia has been fighting since she's entered the tent finally fall away. Running like wild rivers down her face as her features crumble, as if though she were in pain. A noise caught between a growl and a whimper escapes her throat before she launches herself at Allê's sitting form.

With a swiftness born of years of battle, Allê is able to shove her sword aside so that her sister does not impale herself upon it.

Muscle firm brown arms encircle her waist as a tear streaked face is pressed against her stomach. She can feel her sisters sobs as they wrack her body but not a single noise leaves her. Even in this immense display of vulnerability Lobelia still retains her pride as she muffles the sound of her distress. Lobelia's strong fingers dig themselves into her back, as if, unwilling to let her continue on with her decision. As if, this will keep them here—together—and will keep recent events at bay.

But Lobelia, for all that she is the strongest among them, cannot keep away anything. Bilbo who has a tongue sharp enough to split rock cannot speak his way around this. Allê, fierce as she is with a sword, cannot fight this.

This is something beyond their control.

Quietly Allê raises her fingers up and begins to card them softly through the mass of wild curls and snares. She says nothing, offers no promises or comforts that all will be well. She has never lied to her sister and she will not begin now. She simply combs her sisters hair, as she had when Lobelia had cried over the hunger pains, and offered her strength through her silence.

All the while, her heart grew heavier the wetter the clothe over her belly grew.

—X—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin Translations:  
> 1) :: Caput Genere – Head General
> 
>  
> 
> I know, I know, really short chapter with like little movement in the story line. But I just wanted a reaction from Lobelia, like emotionally, because this fandom is very cruel to her. Like, I know she's not a great person in the Books but christ you guys can sure paint her nasty lickety split. I just wanted to show the interaction between Lobelia and Allê.   
> Anyhoo, the big bad Azog should be making an appearance in the next chapter.  
> Hope you all enjoyed, feel free to drop a comment down below.  
> ~Ani<3


	6. Arrivals and Approvals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the long awaited arrival of the Pale Orc and his decision to accept or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if the interaction between Allê and Azog remind you of khaleesi/khal drogo know that it is very much on purpose. I im in love with that relationship. They were my OTP for GoT. And as far as i am concerned I am writing something that mirrors that relationship.  
> So prepare ye self, here be a cliched trope. :))
> 
> Latin translations::
> 
> 1) :: Caput Genere – Head General  
> 2) :: Terra – Earth: land, ground.  
> 3) :: Furor Pugnae – Battle Madness :: like berserker mode, kinda.

—X—

The sky on the dusk of their arrival is littered in hues of violet and a bloody shade of crimson. The air is heavy in anticipation as a horn is blown from the Rovers to signal their approach. She thinks, distantly, that it feels as if a storm is about to break. If she strains her ears she can almost fool herself that the rumble of approaching beasts are in fact thunder.

“Rover's say they should already be within sight,” a young scout huffs, his white streaked cheeks red and his brow damp with his exertion.

Nodding Bilbo keeps his eyes trained northward. On this night, he is equipped in his old armor, a deep muddy brown leather ensemble, with the flowers of his mothers line embroidered upon the edges. His dirty blondish curls have been pulled back in a half pony tail with a leather band. On this night the soft continence usually found on his happy face is gone. On this night, he is a Thain of warriors, a Thain chosen to meet with a Leader of Dark Creatures.

Silently, she muses to herself—for she dares not speak aloud now, never did Bilbo look more like his mother than now with her shimmering curved at his hip and his fathers bow upon his back.

Silently, she thinks, this is a Thain she is more than proud to have served.

“There is still time,” the rumble of Bilbo's voice breaks the tense silence. He does not turn his head nor does he move his eyes. But she knows, without a doubt, that she is being scrutinized down to the end of her bare toes. Just as she scrutinizes him from the corner of her eye too.

“For?” she asks easily, keep her posture straight and her shoulders squared. It would not do well to show any kind of unease in the face of the warriors she had a hand at training.

“You are not bound by anyone to do this,” Bilbo finally says, the grip on his sword tightening, “If you do not wish to—”

“Have you ever known me to break my word?” she harshly asks of him. Her lips tight as she struggles to keep from turning her head and verbally sparring with the man she's sworn her swords to.

“No,” is Bilbo's honest response, “I have not.”

“Then why would I now?” she demands of him, her hands tight around the hilts of her sword, by her gaze unmoving from the dark and warped tree line, “When I took the title as 1) _Caput Genere_ I swore to do all that I could for my people. That should there be suffering and war that it would I who suffered and bleed before them. This is my oath; these are the words I swore to your Mother. I will not balk now. I will not lay them down here before her son.”

She needs not to turn to know that Bilbo's eyes are upon her now. She can see them, from the far corner of her eye, that he is staring wide eyed at her. The mention of his deceased mother having acted like a whip against his heart. She knows—later on—she will feel regret for being so heartless and causing him such pain.

But, now she cannot afford to feel sympathy and concern. Right now she is storing up all her determination, her will, her fearlessness often left for the burst of battle. Right now she gathers it up and cloaks herself to keep from trembling.

“Do not ask me to lay it down now as if it is meaningless,” she grits out. And when the silence begins to weigh heavy, she adds, “Do not ask me to shame my people.”

With that, she can feel the weight of his gaze leave her and soon after the oppressive silence comes running back. Slowly she opens her mouth, to offer apologies, to smooth out the tension that now sits between them. Only, she offers nothing of the sort. For when her lips finally part, and her eyes finally stray from the tree lines to settle upon him, the final horn is blown and her head snaps back into place.

“Bullroarers horn,” whispered the voice of her sister, Lobelia, from where she stood some ways behind her.

“They have crossed into our boarders,” Bilbo states. His body rigid as he prepared for the coming threat.

“So they approach, all will be well, Little Baggins,” the old rumbling voice of the wizard tells, his voice appearing as suddenly as his person at Bilbo's left: Allê standing to his right.

Like the raging tides of the sea—caught within the grip of a storm—they arrive: breaking hard and violent upon the unyielding lands. They reek of savage power. The paws of their great beasts tearing and trampling what little green 2) _Terra_ is scattered about. The sound of their orcish cries slithering down her spine like snakes off trees. She can make out the dark shapes of beast and orc alike, empty black dots of the deep navy of the darkening sky. She focuses on them as they near, 12 in total, her eyes assessing who would reach them first. Her mind running through different scenarios where all end in black and crimson blood being spilled.

Then, like a torch being lit in a blanket of darkness, she see's it.

Pale white, the same lifeless glow of a dying star amid the black sky, it stands out stark and brilliant. Pale like bone, her eyes can behold none but him. His ghastly mount—bigger than any of those the others ride—is the same silver hue. They shine viciously, the light of the rising moon giving way to the rumors of the dead rising from their grave.

When he comes near, and nearer still, she can make out his huge bulk. A huge beast perched upon another. She can see, as he comes nearer—his beast going from a strong steady run to a lazy gait—that he is bare chested, allowing more of that strangely colored skin to be shown. She can make out his bald head, she can make out the sound of his rumbling—thundering—voice as he barks out orders. She can catch glimpses of iron and such but nothing solid until finally he comes to a stop before the wizard.

“Ah, Azog...” the wizard begins, his voice holding only a touch of apprehension and awkwardness. Though he may have lived a thousand of her lifetimes, she does not doubt, that even this type of situation is new to the old coot.

“Azog, may I introduce you to the Thain of the Hobbits, Bilbo Baggins,” the wizard announces for even the orcs at Azogs back to hear, “Bilbo Baggins, this is Azog Lord of the Lost Mines.”

Before anything else can be said Azog, fangs bared, growls out in a language of shadows. It is a harsh and vicious string of words that makes her want to unsheathe her sword and defend her people at her back. It is a cruel twist of growls, clicks and hisses that makes her think of rotten wood and barren black grounds. It serves to make shivers race like cold water down her spine.

With a pinch to his brow Gandalf tightens his lips and looks down to Bilbo. His eyes are hard when he tells her Thain, “He wishes to see who has been offered to him and wishes not for his time to be wasted.”

Bilbo, for all that he prides himself in being a hobbit of great control and snarls out—just as vicious as the orcs before him—“His time he will waste for I will not simply give to him a member of my own without an assurance that a treaty will be struck.”

To this, Gandalf translates and relays to the great big towering beast in clicks, hisses and growls. A savage grumble of words are exchanged between magical man and orc until finally, with a roar, Azog dismounts his beast in one swift motion. Standing, he is tall, almost as tall as the wizard. The bulk of his muscle makes his arms look like thick branches and his thighs like trunks. He is an intimidating image to behold. Strength falling like wild waves off his person.

Turning, he bares his near cat like fangs at them, his pale blue eyes bearing down hard upon her Thain. Her sword is out before she can register she's done it. She only realizes her actions when the act has drawn the great beasts attention and now he is glaring down at her.

She holds no illusions, Azog can and would kill her in one fell swoop. There is a black iron sword strapped to his back and a mace upon his hip. Both look heavier than she. Not only that, she barely rises to half his chest. With a single black clawed paw she could be swiped away and dead before she hits the ground. No doubt it would be a match as evenly matched as one between a ferret and a warg. But she will not back down. She has faced Trolls, goblins and Orcs and never balked. She will face this pale beast if she had to.

Pale blue eyes, the color of ice hanging from stone cliffs, wander over her face. The same cold calculating look of a predator contemplating the fastest way to a kill. She does not doubt he must know—can almost sense it in the way their kind can—sense that she is as willing as he to enter a match to the death.

The tension builds as she finds herself locked in a strange glaring match between a beast and a ferret. She can feel her muscles begin to throb from where she has locked them into place. Aching to be released into a flurry of violence and pain. She can feel the beginning of that '3) _Furor Pugnae_ ' beginning to cloud the edges of her vision. She can almost taste the tang of blood upon her tongue.

And then, just as suddenly, the great lumbering white beast goes from glaring down at her—his sharp fangs bared—he is not. A cold, cruel, smile spreads across that scarred face. The sight no more welcoming than his glaring gaze. But he smirks down at her and then flicks his eyes back onto her Thain. Speaking in that foul language as he did so.

“He says he will not agree to any treaty until he see's who has been given,” Gandalf announces.

Gritting her teeth she begs her body not to react. To not spring into action and runaway from this whole debacle. It is Bilbo who answers as she is lost to her internal battle, his words are biting and riddled with murder, “You know who has chosen to do this **Wizard**.”

turning away from the small hobbit Gandalf waves his robed arm in her direction and answers in that ugly language. No doubt, he is telling the Orc that it is she who has been selected. That it is she who has volunteered to this doomed fate.

Again, strange pale blue eyes fall upon her. This time they are weighted. Curiouosity lining them as he looks upon her. They search her face. Running over the expanse of her forehead, down the slope of her nose, past her skin of her collar bone and linger upon the bared skin of her navel. They briefly stop at the knives she grips upon her sides only to flicker away with disinterest until they land at her bare toes dug into the dusty terra beneath her. Finally they flash up to meet her eyes again. His gaze searching in her own an answer.

Whatever he finds he does not say. He mounts his silver monstrosity with practiced ease and rides away with a bark on the wind towards his following orcs.

When they are a good enough distance away Bilbo frantically demands of the wizard, “What happened? Why do they ride away?!”

“I would imagine it would be to find something to eat,” answered the gray bedecked wizard.

“Did they...” Lobelia's shaking voice sounds, “Did they not approve of...who we _offered_.”

She almost snorts at that. The rush of on coming battle leaving her feeling drained and making her feel light headed after facing the scourge of all of Middle earth.

But she too wonders. Did he not like her. Did he find her lacking. If so, what did that mean. Must they look upon someone else. All these questions racing through her mind in a matter of seconds.

“Had he not approved we would surely know it,” the wizard answered, his voice sounding just as tired as she felt.

“What do you mean?” questioned Bilbo.

Shaking his long gray tresses Gandalf tells them all sagely, “Azog would have razed us all to the ground had he found his offering lacking. He is not the kind to take such offenses lightly.”

At this she does laugh. Exhaustion and desperation giving way to a short bout of hysteria. The laugh that escapes her is less of a laugh and more of a cackle that borders on insane. But she does not care because, she thinks, of course Azog would have not minded how she looked.

Look at him. He was pale where his people were a dark blueish color. He was large and hulking where often times his people were hunched over and lanky limbed. Azog was an oddity and by the look of his moon colored beast, he did not mind surrounding himself in oddities. It would be just her luck that he might want to snag a hobbit like her for a pet.

Idly, she thought as she staggered back to the sanctuary of her tent, she was a very unlucky hobbit.

—X—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations::  
> 1) :: Caput Genere – Head General  
> 2) :: Terra – Earth: land, ground.  
> 3) :: Furor Pugnae – Battle Madness :: like berserker mode, kinda.   
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
> So, I don't really want to have the Orcs address Moria as Moria. I want them to have a name for it themselves, like in Black Speech. And that after all the time and effort—live lost to reclaim it from the Balrog—they take great offense to someone else calling it by that old name. So I hope no one loses their marbles that I never fully address it as Moria. Further more, I hope that you all don't ask for my head when—and if—Azog decides to rename it somewhere along the way.   
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
> 
>  
> 
> I really hope you guys like this. I wrote it all in like an hour while waiting for my sons medication to be filled at a CVS. So if it seems a little wonky please let me know.  
> Again, I hope you all enjoy, don't be afraid to drop down a comment.  
> ~Ani<3


	7. Mini Chapter - Quick Peek into Azog's head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick little look into Azog's head to see whats going on. Leaving little clues in here on future plans. So, pay close attention.

—X—

 

In all honesty, he had not known what he would find when he ventured out here. He had rumors when going through the Goblin Kingdom that Halflings were not warriors. That they were fat round little creatures who barely reached his knee. They told of fur covered feet with shovels as their weapons. The closer he came to their little encampment the more Azog debated turning back.

He would not take a fat, useless, defenseless thing as his mate. He would not tie himself to someone who could not fight for themselves. He would not allow his line to be tainted with weakness as he's allowed once before.

But then, he is confronted with who he must take back. The person he has been given as his mate and he can only think that who he's been given is no round, peace loving creature. This is a warrior and his blood sings over it. Swords strapped to her back, knives tied to her waist and sides of her legs, she is not defenseless she would likely gut anyone who thought she was. The glare in those dark eyes are murderous when they fix themselves upon him and it is glorious. The dark leather of her armor covers what is vital but bares most of her skin. The shade is that of healthy dirt, shimmering under the torch light, calling to him with dark whispers.

Dark hair has been pulled back into a messy knot upon her head allowing him to take notice of her features unencumbered. She holds pointed ears that are soft and leaf shaped. He finds no disgust swirl in the pit of his stomach at the sight of them like often it did when he glanced upon the elves. Her features are not soft as he was led to believe. Her cheek bones are sharp allowing her big eyes to slant so that her narrowed gaze held more power. Her nose may be small and a bit upturned but it did not belie weakness. Her lips were large and full, a color of old blood, that was pulled back in a snarl.

Distantly, he thinks, she is not standing tall at his knee. No, she is more the height of dwarf where she comes up to the mid of his chest, just below his breast.

He thinks, if there was a word for beauty in his language, he would use it to describe this strange creature. He thinks, if there was a word for perfection, he would use that too.

He thinks...if for whatever reason, the halflings think better of this agreement, he will take her regardless. He thinks—an old vicious memory of bloodlust swelling in his darkened mind—he will take her by force and maybe look for more of this dark little beauties.

The growl that leaves his throat is dark, primal and satisfied. With the ease of a more than two hundred years, he mounts back onto Duża's back and rides off to gather the men he's left behind at the foot of the Misty Mountains. He needs to lay out all that he has promised. He needs to make sure that this goes well because he wants so much to take that oddity back to his home. He wants so badly to dress her in orcish armor and mar her flesh till all who beheld her visage would know that she was his.

He wants so much that an old familiar animal wakes in him. An animal breed to kill, to maim, to murder and take as he wished. An animal born from the dark depths of a foul place. An animal that wanted to kill her as much as he wanted to ravage her. As much as it would please the beast in him to simply kill the entire village of these strange creatures and take her right there, he knows better than to succumb to such base needs.

An alliance between these creatures of the Green Mother could help his people further on down the road. He wants his kingdom to prosper. He wants his people to thrive and not on the scraps that can be found in the depths of those mines. He wants more out of these creatures than simply a mate.

And so, he heads back for the gifts he's brought. Gifts that would ensure the alliance. Gifts that would show his commitment and his peoples generosity. Gifts that would show him that they—his people—were needed by them, the halflings.

Gifts that would show the halflings how both races could prosper and benefit from this agreement.

 

 

—X—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, real short. But being a single mom is kind of a full time job. But I promise I'll have the next update up soon and it'll be a little lengthier with much more happening.  
> As always, thank you for reading and please feel free to drop a comment down below to let me know what yall are thinking so far.   
> ~Ani<3


	8. Agreements Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thain Bilbo and Azog finally have a sit down as to what each party will be gaining and/or losing.  
> An agreement is between Hobbit and Orc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, before you read, I'd just like to make clear that I have no real direction with this story. I am a leaf on the wind and my muse is a tornado. If she says go left I go left. I she says, have them move, I move them.  
> I'm sorry if anyone is suffering from whiplash.  
> Oh and if yall are wondering about Thilbo/Bagginshield it's coming, don't worry. It's just later on down the line. Once things are partially settled Thorin and Company will make an appearance and properly start up some much needed drama.

—X—

There is much she had expected to wake to. She had gone to sleep with the thoughts of fire, black arrows and rusted knives piercing flesh. She had gone to sleep with growing anxiety that they would turn around and unleash their wargs upon them. She had expected to wake to the sound of screams and fire. She had expected, in some form or another, death to be what greeted her come morning.

What she does not expect to find come the morning light is _this_.

 _This_ being six piles of fur and cloth perfectly perched upon rocks to keep them clean of dirt and debris. _This_ being eight crates of dried provisions, nuts, seeds and the like sitting in a row. This being that of five gored boars and ten bucks all tied on a rope together.

This is not what she expected to find upon her awakening. These gifts, these peace offerings, there… They could not be called any other thing except that. For that is what they looked like. That is what they felt like.

There is no ill intent spelled in any way, shape or form in these offerings. Every pelt of fur, every tumble of cloth, every crate, every kill all look to be some grand present under the light of the rising sun.

“They are a present Thain Bilbo!” the wizard huffed, leaning heavily on his staff and trying to get eye level with the small creature before him, hunching his back in the process.

Pursing his lips, Bilbo grumbles, “What for?”

“What for? What for?” the Wizard suddenly, and loudly, exclaimed as he waved his hand about, “Did you not ask for their aid?”

“If this is **aid** then why does it feel as if though I am forced to  sell one of my own for food?!” Bilbo grits out, his gaze murderous as he flashed his eyes over to the gray man.

With that her Thain, in all his good show of being a hobbit who still practiced the ways of days gone past, stormed away from the magical wandering man. If she strained her ears hard enough she could make out curses in the Old Tongue.

When the ire of her Thain is far enough away, she turns her attention to the man before her. Tall and lean, he is an intimidating figure despite being wrinkled and aged. Though he makes an effort to appear as nothing more than a mischievous old man she can almost smell the blood that lingers under his finger nails. She holds no doubt that in the old man a warrior still lies there.

Silent but ever watchful in his vigil.

“Why do they offer all of this?” she asks the old man from where she sits on her haunches, low upon the ground.

His ancient eyes quickly shifts from one hobbit to the other. Heavy is his gaze, loaded and cryptically veiled. As if, he holds many great answers in his head but dares not utter a single one of them. They are dangerous, those sky blue eyes, dangerous and reckless.

“They offer it because they must. Despite what all of Middle Earth may think, Orc's do in fact have customs and culture. They are just as much rooted in their beliefs as any other race. This,” here he waves a hand out to all the things set before them and says, “I believe this is part of their customs. I believe Azog wishes for your Thain, and people, to see that he is willing to uphold his end of the agreement.”

“So then, it is a physical representation of what we are asking of him and his people for the coming years?” she questions.

Nodding his head he sighs, “I've learned Orcs can be quite practical and reasonable creatures when they wish it.”

After his words, they sit in companionable silence. Both of their minds wandering away from them for a moment. Her thoughts wrapping themselves around what defined Orcish culture. What customs would they uphold? Would she in the end have to learn them? Practice them? Endure them? Would she have to shed her own peoples for that of Azog's?

How much would she lose in the end of all things? Her freedom she took from herself the moment she agreed. A life among her own dashed when Azog approved of her. There had never been a burning need to marry anyone. She had never felt the want to become a wife, a caretaker a maker of a home. She had at one point entertained the thought of being a mother, of raising a child, teaching them their first steps or first words. Now these things were gone from her too. Impossibilities, all of them, now that she had chosen her fate.

So, she asks herself again, how much would she lose among all that was disappearing before her very eyes.

These days, when her mind was left to wander, it wandered down dark and dismal roads.

“Do not worry child,” the wizard suddenly spoke, breaking the silence between them, as if sensing all the despair she was wallowing in, “These matters tend to work themselves out. All will be well in the end.”

She doesn't know if it's anger or sorrow that make her speak, only that she feels hollow when finally the words leave her lips, “Well for who exactly?”

—X—

Come night fall a feast has been prepared and has begun. What few children they have are put to sleep. Hastily built tables have been arranged to allow their guests comfort as they feast. Four fires have been lit to keep food cooking and the warmth close as the bitter airs came wafting about. The village center has never been more full than in this moment.

Come night fall the orcs descend upon them. The yowls and howls making the hair at the back of her nape rise. The screeching of orc making her stomach roll tight in nerves. When finally they break through the trees she is gripping tight upon her knives, again.

Come night fall, under the light of a crescent moon, does her eyes behold—yet again—the scourge of all of Middle Earth: Azog.

Thain Bilbo and Azog the Defiler sit upon a single table placed in the middle of the entire feast. She stands to her Thain's right for she has refused to take a seat. She thinks should someone attack it would be far better for her to be standing than somewhere on the ground.

The village, for the most part, is divided: On one side the hobbits sit, the other Orcs. Everyone is tense, weapons are clutched more then food is held. She belatedly thinks, they have every right to clutch to their weapons. The orcs have come armed to the hilt as well. Azog carries a thick black sword on his back, a second upon his hip and a mace on the other. The eight orcs following have varies other dangerous looking pieces of metal too. This is a meeting between a race of bred warriors and a dwindling band of homeless nomads.

The difference is almost laughable.

When finally Azog deigns fit, he sits himself upon the ground before the middle table. Both arms crossed before his great broad chest. Both hands tucked under as he almost glares in her Thain's direction. He wears nothing but that strange leather skirt about his waist, a skull of some fanged creature, glistening under the fire light. He is so close now that she can make out the strange patterns of his scars. She can make out the sharpness of his ears, a perverse version of an elves. She can see, if she focused hard enough, the end of his right fang peeking out from behind his lips.

Everything that is respectfully hobbit sized is effectively dwarfed by his massive size. He looks to be among toys for children. All of it lending to making him look bigger, more menacing and fear inducing than was right.

Fear, absolute and instinctual, rise up like a cold wave form the pit of her belly at the sight of him. His ashen skin glimmering under the moon light like a lily upon a grave. She thinks she will always fell that cold wash of fear slice over her nerves when she glances upon him. He is a beast and she a ferret. She will always fear.

But, her mind whispers, I am to marry that beast. A ferret marrying a beast.

In that befouled and guttural language of his, it is Azog that first begins to speak. His cold lifeless eyes trained upon her Thain as he spoke. His right hand waved towards the Thain's person and then out towards the village. If it is a threat Gandalf does not let on. He simply nods his head as Azog continues to spew more of that hateful speech.

“He wishes to know, what do you—Leader of your People—wish to gain from such an alliance,” Gandalf finally speaks, once the pale orc has ceased speaking, his arms tucked back under his arms.

“What do I wish to gain?” her Thain indelicately sputters, his eyes wide with shock and indignation, “What I wish to gain is some agreement of protection. I wish to gain some aid against the Goblins that continue to chase us and kill us every single day. I wish to gain some kind of help so that my people do not fade away to nonexistence!”

And though Bilbo had shouted, his voice rising way above respectable volumes, Gandalf relays his message in a calm near friendly tone. To which Azog growls, bites and hisses back his response.

“Azog offers his protection and that of his peoples from that of Goblin and Orc attacks. He offers his peoples Loyalty should you ever call upon them for war,” Gandalf says in one breath, his eyes shining bright with hope.

“In exchange for what exactly?” her Thain questions, his tone dubious and hard. She too feeling as if there was a very large 'just' hanging in the air.

“In exchange for all of this,” Gandalf begins, slowly, “he asks not only for his chosen mate but for an agreement to be had between two leaders.”

“I will not hand over anymore people, if that is what he thinks!” Bilbo shouted, his curls coming lose from the messy half pony tail he had fixed upon his head.

Shaking his head Gandalf ignores his outraged cry, “He wishes for a trade agreement to be reached.”

“Trade, trade of what?” her Thain asks.

“Azog wishes to offer his and his peoples loyalty indefinitely as long as your people are willing to trade in food wares,” Gandalf announces.

“We have no food to trade with, we barely have enough to feed ourselves now. Food for my people was the whole point of all of this Gandalf, what games do you play at?!”

Gandalf ignores the accusations flung at him even as he is sent murderous glares from every hobbit attendant. The Old Man simply turns his head and begins to speak to Azog in that nasty tongue. She cannot tell if they argue or not, the language as a whole sounding ugly and angry as it is. Her only indicator that all must be in Azog's favor is the sneer on his pale face.

“Azog says, he is willing to offer the lands before his Realm, as a home for you and yours,” Gandalf announces, genuine surprise in his tone and scattered across his features, “He says, the land before his kingdom is unoccupied and fertile. He is willing to offer it as long as your people agree to trade what harvest is yielded.”

To all of this she can only stare in open shock at all that is being said. Her eyes quickly flashing between her Thain, the wizard and over to the pale Orc. Surely this cannot be happening. Where the elves have denied them, the dwarves ignored them, and the Men spurned them—the Orcs willingly and openly offer all of their dreams upon a single breath.

Her heart hammers in her chest like a rabbits feet.

“What promise would I have that, should I accept and move my people to his domain, that we will not be met with more suffering. What promise do I have from him that we will not be exploited by his people?” Bilbo demands, his voice pitched low in his disbelief.

Quickly Gandalf asks all of this in those black words. To which Azog growls and glares, his voice thundering as he makes certain that all who inhabit the village could take notice of him speaking. His eyes flashing like pale daggers until they landed upon her. Though he speaks in her direction, the words are intended for Gandalf, and Gandalf is ever quicker to translate.

“He will be taking one of your people as his mate. He will marry her, declare her his before his own people, and thus declare her people his own. Orcs, he says, do not turn their back on their family. That is your promise.” Gandalf announces.

Heavy and thick, like a wet leather cloak, the silence smothers all that have gathered. Breaths are held as eyes flash about the village center. She can almost feel herself being crushed by the weight of her Thain's decision forming in his mind. She knows, as he does, that there is no choice to this. Just as there was little choice in the arranged marriage.

They will not survive here, among the rocks of Grey Mountains and steel grounds. They will not survive the hunger that overtakes the Trolls come winter. They will not survive should the Goblin King decide his army has grown idle and more are sent after them. They will not survive.

There is little choice.

“If he swears to me that we will not become slaves and he our masters then I will agree,” her Thain announces, gasps splitting the silence of her tribesmen.

Again, Gandalf relays and again translates, “He says, his Orcs need not for slaves but allies in the coming of the Burning Days.”

Later, much later, she will remember Gandalf's words and wonder—just what had Azog meant by that.

—X—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, what'd ya guys think?  
> Hate it? Love it? Meh it?  
> Any questions, comments or suggestions are always welcome.  
> I'd love to hear from you guys!!!  
> ~Ani<3


	9. Swearing and Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alle leaves the tribe finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you guys are enjoying. I hadn't meant to update so late, but, single mom life is a bit CRAZY.  
> Also, I hadn't intended to make this goodbye so long. But it felt wrong to simply rush past it.  
> Anywho, I hope you guys enjoy!

_'Bricegirdles are hard people to know. Many think of them as hard headed, opinionated and brash. They think they are too rude, combative and stiff about the neck. That is why their arms hold the figure of a boar. For a boar is loud, angry and aggressive when crossed. But, a Bricegirdle is always loyal, faithful and always honors the bonds that they make. Never do they stray from family. If one Bricegirdle is to march to war, you can only count on the whole clan following after. So a Gladiolus is what sits upon the boars head._

_This is what it means to be a Bricegirdle, and you my girl will be the greatest to have ever bore the name.'_

She doesn't know why she hears her mothers words now. Words spoken to her on the eve of Lobelia's birth. Words spoke to her to make her understand that now she was responsible for her little sisters safety. Words spoken to her to remind her that her father was gone now and that she was the only one present to help her mother.

Maybe, she thinks, it is because on the night wind she can almost scent the calming lavender her mother used to rub into her hair. Maybe, she thinks, it is because this night—so full of burning stars—remind her so much of the night when those words were spoken. Maybe, she thinks, she remembers those words because her strength, her confidence and will is beginning to falter the closer her feet carry her to the Pale Orc astride the silver beast.

“Must it be done this way, so...so...hastily?!” she hears Bilbo shout from somewhere behind her.

“Please, one more night, let me keep her one more night before they take her!” she can hear her sisters cries echo in her ears. Lobelia, despite pleadings, has begun to cry. Her hot temper burning bright as she begins to rebel against this whole thing. Hamfast and Saradoc gripping both her arms to keep her in place as she pit and cussed at her back. She wants to growl and curse at them for holding her sister like that. She wants to whip out her sword and embed them into their thighs for showing their superior such disrespect. But, she knows they do it for her sisters own good.

Lobelia, if left free, would have no doubt have long since plunged them into a bloody battle with the White Orc and his soldiers.

“They must leave in great haste Master Thain, for there is much ground to cover between here and the Great Lost Halls and Orcs as you know cannot travel in sunlight!” Gandalf's voice boomed over the ring of her sisters screeching cries.

Before she can take another step, a hand clamps tight on the inner flesh of her upper arm. The yank it gives her nearly tears her off her feet. Belatedly, she can hear a magnitude of growls erupt out of the orcs at the action. Her hand is quick to reach for her sword until she see's Bilbo's grief stretched face.

Never has she seen him more harried than now. His brows tightly knit. His lips pinched white and thin. His complexion lost of its golden hue and now pale. Never has he looked like this and she has seen him face Goblins twice their size with arrows sticking out of him.

The sight is an unsettling one, considering she is doing her damnedest to remain unaffected by her own growing fear.

“You do not need to go,” Bilbo harshly tells her. His eyes wild and wide, they fix themselves upon her own. His gaze unwavering as he tries to undo all that he has just done, to her.

“Yes, I do,” she tells him firmly. He cannot do this, undermine the very treaty he has just moments ago struck, in front of the Orcs no less. She will not give any of them— _him_ —any reason to doubt them.

For a moment, they stand there, gazes locked and unwilling to bend before the other. Until finally the fire begins to fade from his mossy orbs. Slowly it dies, snuffed out by the cold winds of their reality. He hears it, reason—whispering at the back of his mind that he must be more composed than this, that he must act like a leader and set his affection to her aside and simply bow as he must—just as she hears it.

Whipping his head around he glares up at Azog, his jaw tight and firm as her Thain growls out, “He must swear something to me, if he is to take Alle.”

Gandalf is faithful in his translations. Azog offers a cold, uninterested look back at her Thain. His upper lip twitching slightly but no more to suggest he is even listening.

“He must swear that he will not hurt her. That he will not lay a hand on her. That he will treat her well!” Bilbo all but shouts up at the pale orc, his hand tightening like a boa around her flesh, “That he will not strip her of freedom. He must swear to me, that he will treat her well as his wife and not as some pet for his amusement! He must swear it! Or I will deal with none of his kind except through that of a bladed sword!”

“Bilbo,” she harshly whispers at him, her eyes flashing from his strained face to the steadily growing irksome face of the pale beast, “What are you doing?!”

“I will not let them take you, if all you are to be is some form of perverse amusement!” Bilbo tells her harshly accompanied by a hard shake of her body.

She doesn't know if it's the sight of being so roughly treated that makes Azog growl loud, feral and wicked. Or, it could be that Gandalf has finished relaying all that Bilbo demands of him. She thinks, it might be the second there, but for whatever reason—he growls low and deep. A nasty sound that shakes the earth beneath her bare feet. A sound that would scare death back into the safety of it's shadows. It is a sound that makes her skin crawl and her heart stop dead in her chest.

Before she can even attempt to make heads or tails of the situation, Azog has flown off his silver mount and has appeared before her. He is tall, so oppressively tall, that he looms over Bilbo and her. He is so wide, thick and sculpted in deadly muscle she feels like a child yet again when faced with such unadulterated power.

A snarl has spread itself across his evilly pale face. He is hissing and biting in that serpent tongue of his. Threats, if ever she heard any, falling from his pale lips like venom. His sharpened fangs glistening under the waning moonlight. Slowly, he bends his head to bring his glare closer to her leader he spits out the last of his speech in a near whisper.

All the while, one large black clawed maw wraps itself around the back of her neck. It's fingers nearly closing full around her slim brown neck. Her breathing hitches at the feel of burning hot flesh. Her body shivers at the danger she has now placed herself in.

“Does he swear it?” Bilbo demands of the wizard, his eyes never leaving from the glare of the white monster.

“He says,” Gandalf's voice sounds tired, worn and so very heavy in the delicate air now surrounding her—as she finds herself in the grip between two warring leaders, “He says, he is not of the race of Men, he is to take Allê as his Mate and that among his people is a sacred act. She will be treated as a member of his clan and thus will be afforded all the rights of his clan. She will be protected as long as he breathes as she is _his_ mate.”

Gritting his teeth, her Thain looks as if he has many more things to say. All of it bubbling just under the surface of his skin. But, slowly—one finger at a time—does he unfurl a finger from around her arm and pull away. There is reluctance in the stiff nod he gives the white orc as he takes two calculated steps back.

The burning hand of the white monster is still tight around her neck. It lingers there until Bilbo has taken a few steps further away. Almost as if...as if Azog himself was staking claim over her. As if he were making a point in showing Bilbo, who held true right to her now. As if...as if she were a felled buck and he the wolf who won the falling prey.

The thought made her stomach drop down low beneath her feet.

When the hand pulls her back she follows—for she has little choice in the matter. They are not harsh yanks of tugs, as Bilbo's had been, but they are not gentle either. They are firm pulls and pushes that mean to show her _she_ is at **his** mercy. That it is **he** who leads and _she_ who must follow.

“Allê! Allê! Wait!” the familiar high voice of Belle stills her feet. She quickly turns her head to find the short round figure of Hamfast's wife running towards her. Her Blonde curls left to float around her tan skin like ringlets of spun gold. She is beautiful, Belle, in every way a Goodchild was known to be. Dazzling blue eyes, pink pouty lips, golden hair and pale skin.

In her delicate hands Belle holds a deep brown pack with a bundle of a blanket tied to it. It is a virtually generic bag made for the Rovers, or Weavers who lead most of their lives out in the wilds. It takes her a moment to realize that the bag is in fact hers. The tall tale rips, stretches and shape giving way it's ownership.

Quickly Belle makes her way over to Allê, heedless of the shouting of her husbands voice. She bypasses her Thain with nary a look sent his way until she stands before Allê, bag in hand.

“I packed all that I could for you,” Belle tells her smoothly, her face calm and smiling as she looked upon Allê, “Not much in your tent to pack besides more armor and a few trinkets. But, I packed what could fit, wouldn't do to have you running off with nothing but the clothes on your back like some uncivilized folk!”

Despite the hand gripping tight on her neck, despite the Orc at her back and the tense atmosphere they find themselves in: she cannot help the smile that spreads wobbly across her face. Because, leave it to a Goodchild to fuss about such things as this. Tilting her head forward for a nod she takes the bag offered and offers her thanks.

But before Azog can move them both away Belle—in all her plucky, Goodchild nerve—narrows her eyes in his direction, effectively stilling his steps. Belle's gaze is critical as she allows her eyes to wander over him from the tip of his harshly pointed ears and down to his iron booted feet.

“Allê has seen us through one war and countless battles in her short years. She has kept us safe, fed and brought my child to me alive when the goblins stole him up into the Grey Rocks. You will do well by her,” Belle warns, her posture that of an old warrior and not the head Healer of their tribe, “You keep her safe or you'll have more than one angry Thain on your hands. Orc or not, I will have no trouble picking up a sword against you Azog.”

Allê is unclear whether Gandalf relays the message. But Azog growls low and predatory. The vibration rattling her bones. A menacing sound that silences what little wildlife had lingered in the trees.

With a quick hard yank she is pulled back yet again. The pack in her hand is wrenched away from her and tossed to some Orc already perched on his Warg. Without notice, the hand at her neck falls away only to clamp itself tight at both sides of her hips, she is tossed onto the back of the silver creature. The starlight fur is soft to the touch but smells of blood and something dark she has never encountered. Just as quick, Azog follows her up and for a brief moment she is doused in cold fear.

Not only has she been removed from the good solid back of her Great Mother, but she must now ride with the miserable White Beast himself.

No matter how stiff she sits, she can still feel the rub of his burning white flesh against her—now fear dampened—skin. Every breath the damned silver furred beast beneath her took, she was jostled back onto his stomach. Every vile plane of mountain rock muscle evident.

Her stomach rolled, twisted and the taste of bile climbed its way up her tightening throat.

Roughly, Azog barks out a command that has his Orcs moving out and prompts the thing between her legs begin to move. In two large jostling steps, the warg has turned around and begun to head out and away from the place she has called home.

In two large steps, she has begun her journey to leave her family far behind.

“Wait!” she screams out, her hands balling themselves in that downy white fur. Panic claws at her chest as she twists in her seat to take a desperate last look at her tribe. At the people she is doing this for.

Her mind screams and her heart cries as she remembers her mothers words ghost against her rattling brain. There is few tradition that the tribe has kept. Most of their culture has been lost to them. Burned in the fires of the Gladdenfields. Buried in the hills of the scattered planes between here and there. There is little that they remember and keep to.

But, this she does know, what a child is taught when they are but faunts too young to learn the swords. She must speak the words, or she will incur on herself the worst of all luck. She must speak the words of their people—scattered, broken and dying—so that she may not be lost among the wilds. She must speak the words so that if she is to perish, then her soul will find those who have died before hers in the fields of their Mother.

A growl is the answer Azog gives her. His giant hands clamping hard on her forearms to keep her still and in place. A rough shake snaps her teeth together and makes her cease her struggles. Trembling she forces the tears to keep form falling and bites on the inner part of her lips.

“Please,” she whispers, her head falling forward so that her forehead brushes lightly against the fur on the beast back, “I need to speak the words...”

“Azog...” Gandalf voice booms just then. He speaks in the tongue of the orc. With a huff and a grumble Azog turns his warg back around so that she now faces her people once more.

Lifting her head up, her arms still clenched tight in white hands—she looks for her sister and calls out, “1)Esta noche he de ir muy lejos, cruzando colinas desconocidas para mis pies. Debo viajar lejos de vuestro amor. Mis noches serán largas y vacías hasta que vuelva. Pero sabed que siempre estaréis en mi corazón."

Lobelia's eyes are red rimmed, her hair wild about her head, her body shaking as she left to slunk onto the floor. She looks lost—like a child, like the night she was told their mother had died—it breaks her heart to see her like this. But Lobelia stubbornly lifts her head and calls out to her, “2)Vaya, vagando infantil, donde se le necesita. Que sus viajes sean seguros y la tierra sea verde debajo de sus pies. Pero siempre saben que la casa le espera en el calor de mis brazos.”

Slowly she brings the tips of her fingers up to her lips, kisses them and sends them out to her sister accompanied by the last of the prayer, “3)Infinita possumus invenire se in campis, parum soror.”

Kissing her fingers, Lobelia sends the prayer back to her, “4)Infinita possumus invenire se in campis, magnum soror.”

She wants to hate the cold, relentless, rush of cold air that hits her face as the beast speeds off. She wants to bury her face in the silver fur. But she does not. The cold air nips, bites and claws at her cheeks but she will not turn away. For the air will be quick to dry the burning tears that fall unheeded down her eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phrases used in Spanish  
> Translating provided by my beautiful and wonderful reader Veronica. (Such a sweetie this one!)  
> -I used Spanish for the Travelers Goodbye, because Latin made it sound wonky and crazy.  
> 1) :: Esta noche he de ir muy lejos, cruzando colinas desconocidas para mis pies. Debo viajar lejos de vuestro amor. Mis noches serán largas y vacías hasta que vuelva. Pero sabed que siempre estaréis en mi corazón.  
> =Tonight, I must wander far and wide over hills unknown to my feet. I must travel far from the love of you. My nights will be long and empty until I come back. Know that always you will be in my heart.  
> 2) :: Ve, niña errante, adonde se te necesita. Que tu viaje sea uno bueno y seguro. Sabe que tu hogar te espera en el calor de mis brazos.  
> = Go wandering child, where you are needed. Travel safe and well. Know that home awaits you in my arms. 
> 
> Now these phrases I switched back to Latin cause it sounded simpler than in spanish:  
> 3) :: Infinita possumus invenire se in campis, parum soror.  
> =Until we find each other in the Endless Fields, little sister.  
> 4) :: Infinita possumus invenire se in campis, magnum soror.  
> =Until we find each other in the Endless Fields, big sister.
> 
>  
> 
> Just a couple things here, I absolutely love every single one of you guys who comment and ask me all these amazing questions cuz it makes my mind go crazy with possibilities. Like seriously, you guys keep my muse well fed and alive.  
> Now, I know a lot of you guys are kinda sitting there wondering whats taking so long for everything to move along and to that I ask you guys to be a little patient. I want to show you guys a world within Orc/Goblin and even Troll life. I want you guys to meet new characters that have dark origins and even darker paths but are real people and not just some blue creature that should be killed on the basis that it was born an Orc.  
> Like I'm very much entertaining the thought of introducing Female Orc's and Trolls. Tolkien does say that there are female counter parts. But they were better with a sword and on a field than with a babe in their arms.  
> So yeah, that has my all in a tizzy.  
> I hope you all can stick it out a little and endure my crazy fic a little longer.  
> Oh and for those waiting on the Bagginshield order, it'll be some time before that happens. Because~~~ I want Thorin to be more than marginally prejudicial about working with hobbits who have treaties among goblins. Like seriously, Thorin is gunna be Thorin the Thorn in Bilbo's side about it. I got a lotta angst planned out for them, a like a shit ton. So hope you guys like rotten lemons.  
> Again, I absolutely, positively, utterly love each and every one of you guys!  
> I hope you all enjoyed this installment and leave behind your thoughts, suggestions or questions!!!  
> ~Ani<3
> 
> P.S. Sorry I threw a BAMF Belle Gamgee in there.  
> I like the idea of there being more women of strength and power in Tolkien universe and not just of Elf make.  
> But yeah, Belle just came out of left field there huh?


	10. Tainted Trust and Frail Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet an Orc, who might be important, might not be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so i was wondering if any of you beautiful wonderfully gorgeously brilliant readers happened to be fluent in Black speech.  
> Or moderate in it.  
> Because as it turns out, I am just horrible at it and my muse demands it as it is going to be an entirely important part of the story.  
> Any who, I hope you guys enjoy!

—X—

The ride is set at a brutal pace. The warg beneath her running faster than she has ever dared to have been moved at. At the speed they travel at, they are able to reach the hidden caves running along the peaks of the Gray Mountains by the time the Moon has reached it's peak. What would have taken three days on Hobbit feet have been accomplished in under one night fall with time to spare.

It is unnerving to see how quick a Orc can move. She wonders if these Orcs had ever chased her people. Had they ever chased her through the brush and brambles. She knows what absolute horror it is to run from these beasts. She knows what its like to have them nip at her heels as she moved from tree top to tree top. She knows what its like to witness a soldier of her's—trained at her hand—fall under these big clawed paws.

Rancid fear swirls her stomach more than the whirling wind searing past her face ever could.

Abruptly, probably at some hidden signal she missed, Azog slows his his silver mount to a trotting pace as they three round two large boulders. Slowly the beast stills at a clearing of an outcrop upon the highs of the jagged caves. These are caves she knows to be often used by Orc and their kind. There is a camp set about. A fire built, darkly colored Wargs stationed about and ten armored Orcs standing tall and menacing. All of which fixed their wicked black eyes upon her the moment she comes into view.

The primal instinct to fight these black hideous creatures rears loud and fierce. Had those large pale arms not imprisoned her as they did she would have flung her throwing knives at their grotesque faces. But in the end she does not. For those tree trunk arms do not move. They keep their place where he grips the pommel of his saddle. Her eyes fall to them, her mind contemplating shoving a knife into them where they lay and pinning him to the beast he rides.

Temptation, temptations.

Her dark musings are broken by a queerly frail looking Orc who is the first to approach Azog. He is a strange looking Orc from what she can tell. She knows not enough of Orc's to judge them by their figure, but she's battled enough to be able to spot some consistencies. They come in all shapes and sizes. Big, tall and wide. Or Short, arched spines and even some who sport metal hooks for limbs. Orc's are strange and perverse creatures like the darkness they are spawned from they take many shapes and figures.

But this Orc is strange, even among all the weirdness that comes with Orcs. His body is slighter—thinner, than what she is used to seeing Orcs with. His soft blue head has been shaved bare thus allowing her to take in the multitude of iron hoops pierced through sharp ears. Though he stands in heavy armor to the top of his neck to the ends of his booted feet, he seems thin and short. Taller still, than any hobbit and even she, but short enough for Orcs that even she could spot it.

The queer Orc greets the Pale Rider at her back all the while his black eyes do not ever fall upon her. The two speak for a moment in their mother tongue. Dark hisses and growls—the disemboweled version of the elves tongue. About what exactly they speak about? She'll never know.

What she is painstakingly aware of is they fact that Azog once again grips the nape of her neck in one hand and her hip in the other. The touch sending vile disgust throughout her whole being. Effortlessly, on his part, she is lifted into the air and gracelessly deposited onto her two feet before the Queer Blue Orc. Without a word or a look sent her way, Azog turns his beast around and rides away as quick as he had appeared into her village.

Before the dust the warg kicks up can take shape, dread has settled like a rock in the pit of her stomach. Her panic scattered mind begins to rush with fright.

Was Azog heading back into her village?

Why?

Had he thought better of his own proposed treaties?

Was he to slaughter her people?!

' _Lobelia!_ ' her heart screams.

Her hands are quick to clutch the knives strapped to her waist as her feet begin to move forward. She will not stay here while the lives of her people were in danger!

“Azog be back,” grits a voice, the sudden appearance of the common tongue freezing her body mid stride. Shock and awe wars with Anger and Fear as she stares dumbfounded at the Queer creature before her.

She had heard tale once—a long time ago, from the Men-folk who had wandered near them, that Orc's had held some dark magic that enabled them to mimic the tongue of anothers language. That Orc's were often heard twisting the tongue of Men when they rushed into battle. Though, the Man she had heard this far fetched tale from had assured her that no Orc was smart enough to understand what he said. He had likened it to a pretty Mockingbird who learned sounds but not for what use they had. As much as she had thought the Man insane she begins to suspect he might have been right on one aspect of his superstitious tales.

Orcs could in fact learn the languages of Man.

For here stood the Queer Orc in all it's slender strangeness speaking to her in broken clipped words.

Turning her head she takes in the Queer Orc at her side and watches as he scrunches up his face with a look of deep concentration, and says, “Must leave...but be back...soon.”

Anger and Fear quickly win over Shock and Awe. For the novelty of an Orc possessing the simple tongue of Man leaves her as quick as it appeared. Instinct thrums wildly within her body making her want to rush off into the wilds of the Gray Mountains and out back to the village. Logically, Allê knows she won't make it far. Not with Ten Soldier Orcs lingering here now all of which have not removed their eyes from her person. Especially not with the Wargs that seem to out number the riders. She won't make it far even if she manages to somehow slip past all of them.

The Gray Mountains are littered with Goblin Filth Traps. Traps meant to ensnare living prey. Traps that took one down deep into the Lair of the Goblin King himself.

' _I won't make it far_ ,' she tells herself to keep from running despite knowing what may lie ahead.

' _They'll kill me if I try to run back...or worse_ ,' her mind whispers when still her hands will not unclench.

'What if he rides to the Village? What if Azog rides for blood, for hobbit blood?!' her heart screams.

Shoving down the whirlwind of emotions biting her, she opens her mouth and demands roughly of the Queer Orc, “Why.”

“Tradition,” the Queer Orc states, his accent twisting the familiar word savagely in her ear, his metal clad shoulder rising and falling in a show of a casual shrug, “It old, but Azog want… he want...”

The Queer Orc's face scrunches up again. The metal brackets on his nose furrowing. His hairless brows rising up. The scars on his blue face distorting and bending as it seems the orc struggles with something. Until finally, he seems to give up with a growl and roughly clasps his hand on her shoulder.

With a growl of her own, Allê shakes the offending blue hand off of herself and demands of the Queer Creature, “Does he ride for my Village? Does he ride for Blood?!”

Sneering in her direction the blue creature barks out a hideous laugh and growls something out in that black tongue that, in turn, make the Orc Beasts at it's back bark out rough laughter. The sound of it making her toes curl in disgust over the rocky ground.

“Azog not break words,” the Orc tells her, a fangy twisted smile on his lips, the sight chilling even to a seasoned warrior such as she, “Need _**Akashuga-hai**_.”

The gnarled words make her want to cup her ears but she grits her teeth instead, “How can I trust him, or you? My people could be amidst a slaughter as I stand here before you.”

With a wicked smile, that bore more fang than she was ready for, the Queer Orc huffs a dry and mirthless laugh. His slim nose crinkling slightly. His hairless brow knitting slightly, his black eyes reflecting the light of a thousand distant stars and his narrow chin curves to a fine point. With ease he answers her in his broken words, “As Men say, must take faith, _**akashuga**_.”

The glare she gives the Orc must speak in a multitude of ways. For the Orc is quick to drop that fangy smile and glower right back. His growl is higher than Azog's had been but made of nightmares none the less. Queer as the Orc may be, he is still every inch an Orc. A killer, a murder, a dark fell thing from the bowels of the darkest pits of all of Arda. It is as intimidating as an Orc growl ever could be.

The sound makes her stomach clench and her body tighten in preparation to a coming fight.

“Not escape _**akashuga**_ , Azog kill all if _**akashuga**_ escapes,” he tells her simply, the dark threat hanging over her head and freezing the wild beat of her heart.

Alle knows not what to say to the Orc, for, what can she say? What can she do?

Nothing.

She cannot leave Azog, cannot leave here, for her people will suffer. If he had not just slaughtered them now. Though, her mind reasons, what use would an Orc have of going through the motions of making a treaty only to decimate an already dwindling people. Bitterly, she thinks, she must do as the Queer Orc before her tells her, and have faith in the promises of Orc's.

She is bound to Azog now—or will be soon—her peoples lives rest on her shoulders. Every one of her actions holding mass consequences. She could leave now, attempt an escape to check on her people. But what if the Queer Orc is right, Azog's ire could not only be unleashed upon her but on those she holds dear.

Not oaths or sworn promises stay her feet and hands, but the fear of her sisters blood splashing upon the ground.

A cold wave of overwhelming helplessness rushes over the most vulnerable places of her soul.

Finer shackles could not be made and she had placed them on herself and set the key into pale black clawed hands.

She wishes to weep for herself once more and weep for her people. For the sister that could be alive or could very well be dead. She wishes to weep but all she can do is level the Orc with a fierce glare of her own and accept her fate, to trust the promises made by Azog and the reassurances of the Queer Orc.

—X—

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Speech  
> akashuga :: Person who has been cut in half :: Halfling's  
> Hai :: Folk/People  
> Akashuga-hai :: Halfling-folk.  
> Yeahhhhh, I know, suppppppper short and not really telling. But now we're in an orc camp and we've meet someone who will later be kinda important to our intro into the Orc culture. I wanted it longer guys, but my personal life is hell right now. But like in a good way. My sons second birthday party isn't going to plan itself and it is literally at the end of this month and I'm sitting here dreaming about fanfic.  
> So I hope y'all don't freak out on me that this kind of felt like filler.  
> Like always, I love you guys to Pretty Pluto and back. Please leave comments and suggestions down below.  
> Love you guys, Ani<3
> 
> P.s. I found a pic of Azog and call me crazy but with the Azog prancing around in my head, he looks kinda...dare I say...creepily handsome?! Ahhhhh, I can't even deal with myself right now. But, y'all check it out and let me know what you think. I couldn't figure out how to post the picture with the story so I got the link:  
> http://www.thelandofshadow.com/the-art-of-azog-jonathan-clark/335_max/
> 
>  
> 
> Oh and I am super serious about the Black Speech thing. Like for reals guys, I need help. I figured out what I want to re-name Moria but I am shit with even attempting to tackle that complex ass shit. So any help will be greatly appreciated!!!


	11. The Loyalty of Commanders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Orc is named.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy!!!

T he days are long, cold hard, vicious and full of pain when one is born 'two blooded'. 

The rules of their world are simple. 

Strange is weakness and weakness is death. 

Different is weakness and weakness is death.

Children born with more than one blood endure much. If they are not killed at birth then their roles in life are of lowly degradable positions. Slaves,  1) _**snaga** _ , are the common place for them. Two Bloods are banes, disgusting creatures. Not fit for the war ranks. Not fit for the Clan Marks. Not fit to be a member of any tribe.

Two bloods are ugly, dirty things who wash, who toil away and serve masters of true bloods.  Used and disposed of as easily as the war bats.

These are the rules of the Dead City. These are  _ their _ ways. 

But these are not  theirs , not their  2) _**Shaka** _ .

In the Vales, their ways were different, their ways were old. Older than she, older than any who still lived. Their ways are true to the beginning. Rituals, oaths and remembrance. The Shaka of the Vales did not look upon the Two Bloods and see weakness. She's not sure what he see's but it is not death and contempt. For the Two Bloods within the Arms of the Unconquered are welcomed and allowed into the clans they are born from. Two Bloods are given jobs, are allowed to choose, to participate in tradition and even hold voice within their own tribes. 

In the Vales, it was different  because the  2) _**Shaka** _ their was from a proud and honorable tribe. In the Vales it was different because their  2) _**Shaka** _ was worthy to carry such a title. 

This is where her fierce loyalty comes from. This is why she kills without hesitation. This is why she heads into certain death without questions. This is why she will do all she can for her Shaka. He saved her, saved her kind, saved her father, and she would repay it in her loyalty.

Bathed in the black and green blood of the betrayers and the truly weak she had been rewarded for her loyalty. Her differences, her strangeness was welcomed—embraced—by the Mines when a pale hand had  flayed her flesh open. The Markings of a War Commander etched roughly over her skin of her chest and neck. A proud display of her position, of her station, of her achievements in her life. These Markings show that she, Jezz ö daughter of X ū kk ă , born under the light of the Moon Tower, survivor of the  First Son's Fire, was worthy.

Worthy to be alive. Worthy of respect. Worthy of her title.

So when the treaty is struck, the agreements honored, she does not question it. She merely bows her head and follows her  2) _ Shaka's _ orders. She doesn't need to like it, she needs only to obey.

“ Tight guard ,” her Shaka  orders the moment he enters their camp .  He is never one for idle words. 

“ Tight guard,” she repeats with a swift incline of her head. He is not one for idle words and does not tolerate any being thrown at him. 

“Keep to the Mountain Pass, under the Pigs realm, arrive on the tenth night,” he states, his eyes never straying down to the creature enclosed in his arms. She does well not to drop her gaze either and insult her Shaka.

“Will you not ride with us?” she asks,  because she had not thought he would have left the  3) _**Akashuga** _ alone. Not with how much rested on that tiny head. 

With a growl he sneers down at her, before he spits out, “Old ways.”

She can only nod and watches silently as impossibly large hands wrap themselves around delicate limbs and displace the creature from the top of D ů za. Soon enough, a strange looking half creature is placed before her. The brown little thing is shorter than even she and had her  2) _**Shaka** _ not been standing before her, she would have laughed. 

“ Do not let her stray,” her Shaka had orders of her, his voice firm, his gaze reeking of death and pain should he be met with disobedience.

“On my life,” she answers him quickly and honestly. She would follow out his orders until her life's breath was ripped from her lungs.

He was her Shaka, she his War Commander. And if he wished for a dirt skinned _**Akashuga** _ at the foot of his throne then she would do it or die doing so. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Speech::  
> 1) - Snaga :: Slave  
> 2) - Shaka :: Lord.   
> 3) - Akashuga :: Halfling
> 
> Dead City:: Moon Tower :: Minas Morgul.
> 
>  
> 
> So I know it's short and it's not Alle or Bilbo's Or even Azog's POV but I'm pretty sure Jezzö is really important to the story. Like later on, and I just wanted to introduce her to you all, like get a little of her down on paper--per say.   
> I hope you guys liked it either way.  
> If not, let me know what you all thought.  
> suggestions and such are always welcome.  
> -Ani<3


	12. When The Fire Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A villain is revealed, named and given face.  
> And Azog's future destiny is spoken of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys enjoy!!!

 

 

—X—

_Clink..._

**Clank...**

_Clink..._

**Clank...**

_Clink..._

**Clank...**

The clanging of gears echo in the vast and empty halls. The sound bouncing off of polished black marble and jumping further against the equally dark iron. Fires roar in the deep, he hears them, can almost smell the burning wood. Iron is being melted and then beaten into shapes of knives and axes. The fires never cool, never die and always burn.

Yet… he can feel none of their warmth.

Not here, not in his tower.

It is always cold here now. Always cold and never warm.

There were days in which his halls were warm. The summer light caused the dark floors to glow golden and auburn. There were days that he often had to seek the comfort of stray winds to chase out the warmth. There were days, once, were his halls held voices and smiles. Laughter echoing in place of gears and machines. There was once life here within the walls of the Angrenost.

Once…

But no more.

“I bring word my lord,” a voice croaked out, a sharp hook nose, blood red eyes and skin the color of green putrid filth. The creature that stands before him is a goblin creature of some kind. Old blood, from what he understands, a descendant of the Water Dwellers. 1) _Kregeshlo's_ ilk no doubt.

Slowly he inclines his head. He has not the want to expend anymore energy than he has to. These past days...weeks or was it months, he has not the energy to speak, to eat or to breath. There is a pull behind his eyes. Something like a hole deep within him where his energy and soul has begun to spill into. Something has begun to take place within him every time he extends his hand out to the growing dark.

“The Pale Orc of the Black Mines, my lord, he has been seen outside of his Realm speaking to a wizard,” the creature hisses.

Memories bathed in fire stir awake. He has been tasked with watching over this Pale Leader. This warrior bathed in the blood of old. A dark warrior from darker times. His fate is unknown to him; Shielded by a darker more ancient power than his own. But the fire speaks, the fire knows, their fate lies in that pale warriors hands. There is a great destiny entwined in that of the Pale Orc's. A destiny that speaks of quelling fires, mending broken lines and crowning kings. For this dark fire calls him a danger.

Thus he has been tasked to bend this warriors knee. Force him to see reason. Force him back into the dark flames. Force him back upon his knees and worship the true creation of their great creator. He has been tasked to do this and if he cannot then he is tasked with ending the last deserving descendant of 2)Rhek.

“Where and which wizard?” he demands, forcing the stiffness from his bones to look properly upon this nasty creature before him.

Bloody red eyes blink, slanted like a scaled creatures, as the creature, “In the cold Trollshaws, my lord, in the company of the Grey Crow.”

Ah, he thinks slowly within the confines and safety of his mind, so it has begun. The unknown wheels—hidden from him by something he has never felt—have begun to turn. He must begin his greatly laid plans. He must call upon his legions now. He must gather his pawns and set the game. For it was beginning and there was little time to spare.

But first thing was first, he thinks.

“Send riders after him but bring me his son. It is time for Bolg to see the might of Isengard whom he now serves,” he tells the creature.

Ducking his head the creature hisses, “Yes my lord, Saruman.”

 

 

—X—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfamiliar names that I threw at you!  
> 1)Kregeshlo :: 2)Rhek :: these are ancient creatures from Orkish history that will be explained in later chapters. I figured it was okay to let it slip in this chapter, despite not having explained it in other chapters, because it's coming from Saruman. And Saruman knows a lot, but not everything, about a great many things.  
> _____________________________________________________________________________
> 
> So yeah, Time line? No time line, sorry. I should probably put that in the tags right? Okay just so you know almost everything in LOTR Movie-verse, is going to be smashed into this story because a lot of the Hobbit-verse—both book and movie—will be altered or pushed back and might not even happen at all.  
> Hope I didn't upset any of y'all too much.  
> Anywho, what did you guys think? It was real interesting to try to write from Saruman's prospective. I felt, like, super powerful. I started to do alchemy! Lol, jk. No but it was interesting. I was able to determine just where I wanted to take Azog's character path as well as the future of his Colony. It was great. Sorry to those who were expecting a Bilbo or Allê chapter. But this seemed kind of important to me. Like yeah, Allê is now in Orc hands, but like—greater bigger things are happening in the world. And her heading into the heart of Azog's strange Realm is throwing a big Monkey Wrench into things she doesn't even know are taking place.   
> Also, I know, painfully short. But I like it.   
> Once again, thank you to every one of you beautiful people who decided to read!  
> Thoughts, questions or suggestions are always welcome!  
> -Ani<3  
> P.S. I swear to you Bagginshield will be happening! To all my Thilbo fans I beg for some patience!!!


	13. The King of Hills and Mountain Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Royal tiffs and Shadow rumors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy!!!

 

 

 

* * *

 

“Brother, please, this is madness she half pleads and half demands. There is fear in her navy blue eyes. Fear for the life that seems to dangle before her on a shredded thread. Fear for her brothers life and whomever he wishes to involve in his mad venture.

“Madness?” he barks, his eyes a livid shade of disbelief. He, who hates his father more any of them, looks the spitting image of him when he is enraged. For he holds their fathers temper, his lust for life and his fathers strict military mind.

“I would see us back to our Homeland, the Kingdom of our fore bearers! I would see us, the Line of Durin, back onto their rightful throne. You call _this_ madness?” he roars, his black tresses swinging with the violent movements he issues alongside his wild gestures.

On this eve, he wears dark clothing. Deep Durin blues trimmed with black. The trim, cuts and tailoring is utter perfection. But still, a good eye like hers is meant to spot the small wearing on the shoulders and elbows. It may be tailored to perfection, his garbs, but they are over decades old. It is a marvel they have held for so long.

“Thorin, brother, please,” she pleads, her eyes watching for the rise of his temper.

While her brother had never raised a hand towards her—has never dreamed to ever do so—she still fears. She was raised by the hands of her grandfathers gold madness and the fists of her fathers rage. These two things, she fears, have been passed down to her brother. Her savior, her shield, her protector, her champion and greatest love.

In the midst of his fit, he turns his burning eyes towards her. A dark insidious kind of desire lay there. The kind that has taken hold of two of her ancestors. The kind that threatens to take one more of their line. She is tired of such a look. She is tired to falling prey to that look. She is tired of having it lurk in every one of her memories from childhood into womanhood. She is tired of searching her own heart lodes for it.

Ever watchful and ever vigilant that the look does not bleed into her childrens eyes.

“Erebor is lost, let it remain so,” she tells him, her work roughened hands clutching at the thick harsh material of her pants. Long has it been since she has graced any of her visage in dresses and robes. These days any who laid eyes upon her would only ever find her in her workers clothing or war dress.

“Let it remain lost? How can you say such a thing?!” Thorin bellows, his eyes flashing wildly over her.

Fear is readily coursing in her, like white whippets of ice pieces, ready to swallow her whole. But Thorin is not the only heir to the long line of Durin. So is she. She is the only daughter of Thrain and Fiera. She is Dis, a warrior, and Wife to the head of the Golden Forges. She has not survived this long on luck. She has endured just as much as Thorin and she would not hesitate to fight if pushed.

“I say it because it is true. Erebor is lost Thorin. It is _lost_. The dragon has claimed it and all that therein lies. It is but a fortress that houses the wyrm. We will find nothing there,” she bites out, fire burning in her Durin blue eyes.

“It is our home, the home of our father, of our mother, of our grandfather! It is our home! How can you so easily leave it to that creature?!” he demands of her. His large calloused hands tightly fisted. His broad shoulders squared and trembling lightly in his ire.

“Ered Luin does not suffer. The mines are young yet. Peace treaties have been struck with the elves of the Hidden Pass. Dain sends word that the trading envoys will begin soon. Your kingdom—” her words are yet lost to the burst of outrage he has at her words.

“My kingdom? These _Hills_ are not my kingdom. Erebor is where we belong—where _**I**_ belong. These hills are no more than a refuge for us. We are Durins folk and we deserve more than the simple mines of iron and ore. I will not have my people making do. I will have them feel the riches of our kingdom once more!” he yells at her.

“How dare _you_ say such things, Thorin!” she roars, her face turning several shades of crimson in her growing anger, “We carved out a life here with our bare hands. How many did we lose to settle these mountains? How many children have been birthed here?! This is our Kingdom. One WE raised along side our countrymen. How can you so easily toss it aside?”

“We are of Durin's blood, we belong under the mountain stone of the Lonely Mountain. Not here, not here where we must scrounge and barter so heavily. Not here where we must bend our heads to Elves and their fancies. We are meant for more than this!” Thorin yells at her.

The silence that follows rings angrily. For a moment, she dares not break it, for she knows not what to say. She has never known her brother to ever move without purpose. She has never known him to risk lives so needlessly. She has never known him—for all his hot temper and stubborn pride—to ever be anything but rational. But now, now these days he has been like a man possessed.

Ever since there cousin had come, with feverish dreams and portents, Thorin has been obsessed with the thought of reclaiming the mountain. He has not wanted to hear of the trade agreements. He has not wanted to listen to the envoys of elves that come. Missives sent by anyone not of Dwarf blood is tossed away and pushed aside. He holes himself up in his room and pours himself over onto a map that is older than even she.

Something has stirred awake a monster in her brother. Something dark and evil has called to him and refuses to leave him be.

Dis, for all that she is the War Master, feels powerless before him now. She feels like a child again cowering under her mothers skirts—hiding from her fathers fists. She wants to cry, punch and kick at Thorin to make him see reason. To make him understand that he—that he sounds just like their Grandfather had, right before the Treasury had been locked.

In this silence, Dis allows her eyes to rake over the strong tall form of her brother. His dark hair, that has begun to silver, is disheveled and unruly where he keeps raking his fingers through it. His face is pale where he has not seen it fit to go work in his forge as of late. The black bags underneath his eyes glare angrily at her, accusing her at failing to protect him. He looks haggard and worn—nothing like what he looked like four moons passed.

Something wicked has begun to sink it's claws into him and he does not seem to even notice.

“If you do this, know that you do this without my blessing, for I will not support you in a venture that will only end with more dwarrow lives ended,” Dis tells him, her shoulders tight and her spine ram-rod straight.

She may have been raised a scared child but she was a Durin too. There was strength in her yet. She will not falter after all she has endured.

Her words, uttered so coldly, so cruelly—serve to pummel Thorin as if Dis had physically struck him about the face. For a moment he stands there, stunned, before he straightens himself and tells her, “I am King in these halls, I do not need your blessing.”

“King you may be,” she starts, ignoring the hurt that his words have flung at her brittle heart, “But I am War Master and Head of the Golden Forges—that is two seats upon the council that will not offer their support to you.”

With a flourish, a swing of her deep charcoal coat, she leaves him behind. Ignoring the livid anger on his face and the scowl he directs at her. The iron tipped boots of hers issuing a rhythmic pounding onto the shined marble flooring of the halls. Dis, for all that she is royalty, is not as ostentatious as her brother. Her guards are but a select two that are gifted and seasoned warriors. Warriors that are staunchly loyal and would follow her to the halls of their Maker. They match her steps easily.

Quickly they make their way down into the abandoned mines that had first been dug when they came to settle here. The walkways are empty and the shafts clear. None but she and her guards now stand here. That is, until they hear the tall tale whistle of a sparrow echoing from the depths of the tunnel. With ease, Dis calls back in answering with a whistle of her own, only this time it is the call of a blue jay.

Out of the hearts of shadows crawls out her most loyal subject and spy. Hair the deepest shade of rust is pulled into a simple thick braid down her back. Delicately and expertly hair has been weaved over her face in a way that Dwarrow women often wore it when out in the wilds. A design meant to disguise them as men: a faux beard. Her body is slender under the bulk of leather armors and hidden daggers. The leather soles of her brown boots makes it so that they cannot hear her approach until she appears before them with a wicked smile split across a beautiful face.

“Hello, luv,” the spy calls to her, a purr like sin rumbling in her voice as she winks at the Princess, “Haven't seen you in a spell luv. Family troubles keeping you away?”

Dis is proud of the way she represses a growl and tightens her lips. Of course, her spy would know exactly what was happening to and around her. Despite, of course, the fact that Dis employs her to keep track of everyone else, “So you know then?”

“I do, much more than you and worlds more than the King of Hills and Mountain Stone,” the spy quips back happily. Her slender long frame braced up against a far off wall and a shiny silver knife spinning lazily between her fingers.

“He wishes to claim the mountain,” Dis says.

“Oh I know, he thinks the dragon's dead or slumbering,” the spy offers.

Raising a dark inky brow, the princess asks, “Is it? Dead or slumbering?”

“Neither,” the spy tells her with a frown, “I went, like you asked, it's alive and well. Seems to me it's waiting on something—or someone. Though who, bugger if I know. But I do know this, his Majesty might want to watch out. The roads from here to there have darkened. Armies are marching and smoke is rising from dark and fell places. Even the elves have begun to board ships and leave for their Gray Havens.”

Just then, Dis' heart freezes, because she may not be blessed with the sight like the elves but she just knew. She knew something was coming. She could feel it every day that she rose and every day that she laid herself to rest. Something dark and terrible was coming. Everyday that she felt this was everyday more that Thorin lost himself to his obsession.

“War? War with who?” Dis demands.

Shrugging, in a painfully casual manner, the Russet spy offers, “War with everyone. Shadows speak of Orcs being amassed under a white hand. Shadows say that a War between Orcs is about to swallow the realm whole.”

“War between orcs?” Dis mutters in disbelief, “Over what?”

“Whose to say, but things are stirring out in the grand big world. Things that could very well snap the seams of every kingdom alive. Now is no time to stir a dragon in the midst of it all,” the spy says, her smile light and eyes, but her twinkling auburn eyes spelling of grave mortal danger.

In all reality, there is no reason she should be trusting the word of this Spy. After all this is the same creature they named the Crimson Wraith. This is a dwarf who walked without being heard. Who moved without being seen. This is a dwarf who killed for money and stole for sport. This is a dwarf that was dangerous, a criminal and wild. But, Dis trusts her, not because they share a distance trace of blood.

No, because they forged a bond—long before they settle here under these blue mountains—made of blood and iron. This spy was her criminal, her assassin, her thief and her one true friend. There was no one she trusted more.

“You will keep me informed?” Dis asks, though she knows her Spy will.

With a smile that was all vicious teeth and utter seduction, her spy bows lightly and murmurs, “Of course, luv. I live to serve.”

And just as sudden as her spy had appeared she was gone. Leaving behind words of Orcs and War and waiting dragons. With a heavy mind and a heavier heart Dis turns and begins her trek back to her rooms. There was much to do, many Dwarrow council-folk to speak to and two children to find and feed.

Under the clank of her heavy feet—and that of her guards—she whispers into the dark. Knowing full well that despite not being able to see her spy, did not mean her spy was gone, “Until next we meet Nori.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't meant to write like a random Thorin chapter. But, I was showering my baby and I was thinking over how Thorin must have decided to go reclaim Erebor. From what I understand, he was late in life and it was kind of like his last 'Hooraa'. Kind of like his last attempt at some kind of glory. The knowledge of this kind of made me sad. Like, really? Kili and Fili, my beautiful cinnamon rolls died for vanity? I don't like to think so. I like to think that Thorin was almost compelled to go. Like a self fulfilling prophecy. The kind of which the more you attempt to deny it completes itself.  
> So in this fic, I'm thinking maybe, instead of just wanting the glory, a darker kind of magic--Gold Madness spurred on by the spreading of evil by Saruman and Sauron--took hold him and forced him into action.  
> I hope I didn't confuse the heck out of people.  
> FemNori? I hadn't meant to make her a girl. I love Nori as he is. such a versatile character. But, writing as Dis, He became a She and then it was set in stone. And believe you me, Dis isn't one to take no lightly. She's a push character to write for.  
> Dragon waiting? Whaaat??? Yeah I know. That just popped out, randomly.   
> So what did you guys think?  
> Thoughts, suggestions?  
> Anything is welcomed!!!  
> -Ani<3333  
> p.s. Sorry about the long wait period. Muses are hard to keep alive when you're potty training babies and reviving marriages. But I promise I haven't given up!!!! I have many pre-started chapters. I just have to run through them and fine comb them!!! Bear with me y'all!!!!


	14. Memories and Tunnels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the Mountain we go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) :: Ama – Mom, Mommy, Momma – this is what I yell at my mom when I decide to revert back to my spoiled five year old self.
> 
> 2) :: Legulas – hunters and gatherers
> 
> 3) :: Akashuga – Halfling. As she has not shared her name, Alle will be referred to as Akashuga for some time.
> 
> ______________________________________________________________________  
> I hope you all enjoy~

* * *

 

 

 

_“But I don't like it,” Lobelia had whined, her small and young face scrunching up in dislike at the task at hand._

_“I know you don't, but you still have to learn,” she had argued. It had been a total of two moon cycles since she had buried their mother. All the duties and responsibilities of raising a faunt had now fallen to her. Everything her mother had taught her she now had to teach Lobelia. It was the way of things._

_Glaring angrily at the chestnut colored mare before them, Lobelia stomps her little bare feet and growls, “I don't want to learn how to ride. Hobbits aren't meant to ride animals. Ama always said hobbits had to keep their feet on the ground.”_

_She won't lie, hearing mention of her mother, and the wisdom she had once so long ago imparted on her, said aloud hurts. She is only 23 winters old. She is yet young. Still a child by many standards. She still needed her mother here to guide her. But, she cannot wallow in this pain. She cannot begin to let it influence her days task. For, Lobelia has lost an equal amount as she and Lobelia is only 12 summers due._

_“She did, and we are,” she concedes. Her gaze glued to the wild pony before them._

_It is a pretty little thing. A triangle of white upon its head. It's mane and tail the lightest shade of honey she's ever seen. Others in the camp call her Belva, which only means she is a lovely sight, but they do not trust her: the elders. She is a born wild pony, pulled from the woods from their long lost homeland. She does not take well to reigns or riders upon her back. They use her mostly for hauling the caravans or plowing the earth—when Belva feels especially pliable._

_When her mother was alive, and had taught her, it had been with a steady old mare. One who did not buck. One who was lead easily by clicks of tongue and whistles of birds. Her mother had chosen the old horse for a reason, so that it would be easier for her to ride._

_But she has chosen this wild one for Lobelia not out of spite but out of purpose. Lobelia must learn all that she has in her twenty three years now as a thirteen year old child. She must make it so that her sister will know how to survive should she ever perish._

_“But you must learn to ride Lo',_ 1) _Ama taught me and I must teach you,” she tells her easily enough. Her eyes falling away from the mare that huffs at them down to her sister at her side._

_For a moment Lobelia is quiet. Her lips are screwed shut and her arms are tightly crossed over her chest as she glares in the animals direction. As if, as if the animal is the one to blame for all that is wrong. Eventually, her young sister speaks, her little voice soft and gentle against the spring time winds, “It feels...it feels wrong. To take my feet off the ground. I don't like not feeling the Green Mother's Song. I don't like it Allê.”_

_Heaving a heavy sigh Allê drops down to sit on her haunches and gets as eye level as she can with her smaller sibling. There is confusion in those dark eyes. Apprehension too and even a dash of fear. She knows these emotions well and cannot begrudge her sister the right to feel them. When her mother had first forced her onto horse back, she had felt much the same. Though fear, fear she had not felt, for her mother had been at her side and her father had watched from the distance. Lobelia has no one. No one beside her and she is but a child teaching a babe._

_She doesn't know what to say to Lobelia. She doesn't know what words to use to express that learning how to ride, no matter how unnatural it felt to be separated from good earth, was absolutely necessary to her survival. She doesn't know how to say it without scaring her. So she tries to think back to what pretty words her mother had used, but, can remember nothing but the sound of her mothers laughter on the winds. So she stares, silently, into her sisters eyes and tries to think of something, anything, to say._

_Rolling her dark eyes, Lobelia huffs and glares at her, “Just tell me, I can tell you're trying to keep secrets from me. Just tell me.”_

_“No secrets,” Allê tells her, a rueful smile spreading wryly over her lips, “Just hard truths.”_

_“So tell me, I'm big enough to hear them,” Lobelia tells her, her chin raised and shoulders thrown back in a challenge if ever there was one._

_Running a hand through her short hair, cropped short like a boys to keep from getting in her eyes while she ran from tree branch to tree branch, and heaves a heavy dark sigh, “Lobelia, you know how Ama died, right?”_

_“Y-Yes,” Lobelia answers, her body tight and rigid, as if, she had been struck by lightning._

_“She was out with the 2)Legulas, hunting down boars, when the Goblins found them,” Allê tells her softly, careful to keep the memories of it all from bleeding onto her face, “she had left her pony behind in camp and so when they came down upon them she could only run. Hobbits are fast, faster than most on foot—one of the many gifts from the green lady, but Goblins—goblins are cruel creatures. They make weapons of wood and stone. And they caught her before the Bounders could be roused.”_

_the silence that follows her words is oppressive and vicious. It weighs down on her heavy with guilt that she should not unload these things upon someone as young as Lobelia. Lobelia is still a babe. She has no memory of their father and will have nearly none of their mother by the time she gets to Allê's age now._

_The silence is only broken when Lobelia nods sharply and begins to step over to the grazing pony, “So I have to learn to ride if I don't want to die?”_

_The question serves to give her pause. A heavy and abrupt punch to the gut Allê had not expected. She does not want to think of her sister dying. Does not even want to entertain the thought. But she must, and has because here they stand now, trying to force her to learn to run if nothing else._

_“Yes, you must learn to ride, or you will die,” she says lowly, willing the fear in her heart to go unvoiced._

_When they reach the mare, Lobelia turns and glares at her over her shoulder, looking especially like their mother that it almost hurts, “I'd rather learn how to slit Goblin throats than runaway. But, you'll teach me that later.”_

_At that Alle smiles wide and true—a wicked spread that is nothing if not sharp and dangerous—as she nods her head and stands, “Of course, but first you must learn to ride a foul hearted pony”_

—X—

She doesn't know why her mind is flooded with that memory, in particular. Maybe, she thinks, it has a lot to do with the fact that she has been forcibly perched upon a furry beast she'd rather have nothing to do with. She thinks, maybe because while she clutches to the russet colored matted fur, her sister—Lobelia—would have assuredly killed it by now.

Not that Allê herself has not been tempted, because, she has. They have yet to confiscate her weapons—have yet to make any inclinations to take them in the first place—and so she is _very_ tempted to slay the beast between her legs. Only, she hasn't because that would mean inciting the wrath of the Orcs that surround her so tightly. And though they haven't raised their hand at her, she is doubtful that it would take much to have them turn on her.

In any case, she won't kill the damn beast. Not really. Hobbits are meant to cherish life. All life. Even if it is some shadow thing from the bowels of a dark and name-less place.

After all, the warg looks about as pleased as she is that she now rides it. It had been one of the few beasts free without a rider until Jezzö—the queer faced orc but whether that is his name or title, she isn't sure—had picked her up and tossed her onto the thing. For the most part, the beast ignores her. It utters not a lick of protest when she balls her fists up into its fur or when she digs her heels into his sides in panic.

Ponies, Horses and even the wild deer that were sometimes inclined to be ridden: those are the things she is mildly alright with mounting. Not this thing. Especially now.

Underneath the earth—underneath the mountain stone, away from the sun, skies, wind and stars. They—the orcs—have led her to the mouth of some tunnel hidden on the side of the great Gray Mountains. It had taken three orcs and two wargs to move the great boulder that had blocked the way. Torches then had been lit before they had all made their way inside.

Hard ground instinct makes her body seize up. Her hands clutch desperately to the beast she loathes. Her feet dig into his sides in sheer panic as her eyes go ever wide and her ears strain out. She does not want to go in. She can almost hear the cackling of the Goblin filth echo in the dark. She can almost see their pale and deformed bodies slithering out of the dark and into the orange light of the lit torches.

But the tunnel—which is about five wargs wide and nearly as tall as a troll—is empty. The walls are slick with moisture and the air is dank and smells of rot and filth. The floor is littered in bones, whether they be of Men, Elf, Hobbit or animal, she knows not. Only that the Wargs have no qualms stepping on them and cracking them in half with their enormous weight.

For they are enormous: the Wargs. As tall as those Mounts the Horse-Lords sport. But the wargs are built thick like ten boars mashed together. Thick and heavy with muscle that could endure such vicious elements. Their paws, larger than that of her face, remind of her a wolves. Though their faces, their faces are something crossed between a wolf and a dog. The features are similar to her eyes enough and yet foreign enough to give her pause.

If not for the scars they bear, the blood that has dried and matted their fur, and the scent of death about them—Allê would almost marvel at such a terrible vision they make. For only wargs looked like wargs. Only wargs fought like wargs: to the death and unflinchingly loyal to their Black handed Masters. Wargs were things of dark and terrible places.

And here she rode one as if they had not just four nights passed been used to hunt her and her squadron down.

“3) **Akashuga** keep close,” the growling rumble of words makes her snap her eyes to the left. That queer faced Orc, the one they call Jezzö and treat as their leader, is looking at her. His black eyes reflect the red of the torch light and make it so they bleed red for a moment.

When she says nothing, Jezzö continues on, “Under Goblin stone. Azog no, Azog _not_ —” the orc seems to struggle for a moment, his eyes flashing around as if to find the words he looks for written upon the tunnel walls, “Goblin no honor ways. **Akashuga** keep close.”

With that, the Queer Orc Jezzö turns away. His head set straight ahead and his eyes no longer searching cave walls. Allê too looks away and back over to the looming dark that is set before her. Though her face shows nothing more than a blank empty expression her mind is whirling. She knows nothing of orcs and their ways. Up until these last few nights she has never thought that they may have any.

Obviously, she was wrong.

Still, she wonders if maybe it is her nerve rattled mind that does not twist the truth before her. Could it be that there were tensions between the Goblin King and the Azog the Defiler? She wonders if why, if it even is so. She wonders what that could spell for her people now that they aligned themselves with the pale rider. She wonders if they haven't made their—her people's—situation all the more worse now.

Through the corner of her eye, she keeps a watchful gaze on the one they call Jezzö and sends prayers to her Great Mother that all may not fall to bloodshed once more.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) :: Ama – Mom, Mommy, Momma – this is what I yell at my mom when I decide to revert back to my spoiled five year old self.
> 
> 2) :: Legulas – hunters and gatherers
> 
> 3) :: Akashuga – Halfling. As she has not shared her name, Alle will be referred to as Akashuga for some time.  
> ____________________________________________________________________-
> 
> So, I meant to make this chapter longer but I kept rewriting and half editing it to death. So before I could mutilate it anymore I decided to post it.  
> I hope you guys enjoyed it somewhat. Next chapter should be up soon.  
> As always, thoughts, suggestions and comments are always welcome  
> -Ani<3


	15. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick look back at what happened after Azog left the Hobbits and that one Wizard.

* * *

 

1) :: _Soror Sanguine_ :: Blood Sister – a term used among Hobbits to signify a bond forged by blood spilled upon the Battle Field. Akin to something like: Shield Brother or such. It will be later discussed when the Company of dwarves deign it fit to grace us with their company.

2) :: _Appa_ :: Dad – This is a term often used for Dad in spanish, at least, where I come from. But, I grew up using it for my grandpa.

 

* * *

 

 

The silence that engulfs them, after the orcs have departed, falls heavy and harsh. It feels unnatural and rings in his ears threatening to shatter his ear drums. He stood in his place and watched until the speck of pale white had faded into the cover of the woods. He stood in his place and watched as his General—so staunchly loyal—had been taken from her people. He stood in his place and watched as the person he had called 1) _Soror Sanguine_ had ridden away. He stood in his place and allowed it all to happen.

Guilt settles itself deep and hefty against his heart. Not for the first time since this has all started does he question if this was a good decision. The answer he is often rewarded with is: that it was—is not. But there is little he can do anything about it now. Allê is gone; gathered in the black claws of Azog and a Colony of Orcs. His stomach—empty still, for he will not touch a single strip of food—swirls at the fact.

A devastating thought occurs to him then, 'What would his Ama, or worse yet, his 2) _Appa_ think of all this?'. He wonders what they would make of all this. He wonders, had they still been living, would they have so calmly watched as one of their own was taken into such a lions den. He knows his father would have fought against it. Bungo Baggins was tied to the old ways. He was among the few who had often visited the Old Lands and fought to continue digging homes. Belladonna Baggins nee Took...he's not sure what his mother would have done. Belladonna was known for being wild in her youth. A dangerous creature if a short sword ever feel into her hands. And yet, she was among the few who endeavored still to speak to the other races of Peace.

Never has he so desperately wished his parents alive than in this moment. Because, in this moment, he feels as lost as when he was a child and forced to keep watch for monster in the night.

“What now?” he asks the gray wizard at his side if only to break the oppressive silence that engulfs all.

“Azog has left sentries stationed here, around your camp, to ensure your safety. Until...” the wizard's words trail off as the sound of rustling fabric echoes in the hard silence of the night.

“Until what, wizard?” he demands harshly, his head swiveling so that he now faced the damnable man and fixed his glare upon him.

Heaving a tired sigh the old man rubs his face and mutters lowly to himself. Of what, Bilbo isn't sure.

“Azog expects it will take some time before all of your people will be made ready to make the journey over the mountains, through the fallen kingdom of Erebor and over to the Mines. He knows how hard such a journey may be, so, he has instructed his guards to watch over your camp and keep the Goblins at bay. He will send more out to you once he reaches his kingdom. But for now, you need not do anything with much haste. He has given you ample time to gather what need be and organize as you see fit.” The wizard says.

For a moment, Bilbo is struck by the news. He hadn't expected Azog to be so... _practical_. Or yet, _understanding_. And so he thinks it perfectly acceptable that for a moment he merely stands there and stares wide eyed at the wandering wizard.

Seeing his expression and, no doubt, taking delight in being the one who caused it—to some extent—the wizard chuckles lightly and murmurs with a smile, “As I told you one before, Orcs can be quite rational people if ever given the chance.”

With that, the wizard turns on his heel and head back to where the tables of food lay and begins to help himself to what has already been cooked. Leaving in his wake a Hobbit who cannot begin to make heads or tails of the path that lay before him. His mind is whirling and his heart—his damnable heart—still sinks ever deeper into his chest with guilt over all that has happened.

No doubt, he'd still be standing there wallowing in his guilt if not for the hands that come and nearly shove him to the ground. In a flash his eyes glance up off the rocky ground and over to what ever has attacked him. What his gaze meets is the harried visage of his trusted Left Hand: Lobelia. The sight of his red rimmed puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks and grief tightened lips is enough to break Bilbo's heart all over again. He has not yet forgotten the sounds of Lobelia's screams as Allê had ridden away.

If his heart felt as heavy and broken as it was, Bilbo cannot even begin to imagine what Lobelia must feel. In fact, Bilbo wants not to imagine it for he is guilt for what Lobelia's heart now bore.

Tonight, he was guilt of many things.

Again, war roughened hand, push at him and he nearly stumbles off his feet against such power. Bilbo has known, has always known, that Lobelia was stronger than him. Despite the fact that he was male and she female. The Bricegirdle line was one riddled in strength of arms. Lobelia was a proud member of such a line and displayed such raw strength whenever she could.

Another rough push pulls him out of his musings. Belatedly, he finds he has gripped the hilt of his mothers short sword. Belatedly, he thinks, Hamfast was right: he was rusty. He hesitates drawing the weapon in the face of such grief and rage. He thinks, he is guilty of the torment that now lay on that beautiful cocoa face. So he steels his nerves and forces his hands to his side. If Lobelia was looking for retribution in the form of his spilled blood, he would give it to her.

But Lobelia, as angry and wild as she seems, does nothing more than shove him and shove him again. She pushes and pushes until he all but trips over the low set table Gandalf had placed for he and Azog to use. When he steadies himself upon his feet two brown hands grip him tight by the shoulders and force him down until he is seated once more. Confused, his eyes flash up to meet Lobelia's only to find her gaze averted and focused out into the wild trees.

Lobelia offers not a word of explanation as she turns to stand behind him on his left hand side. The spot to his right remains empty and Bilbo does not imagine the cold breeze that filters in through that space. Bilbo is not afforded the chance to ask her why he has been so forcibly seated in the middle of the tribe before he is interrupted. Belle Gamgee, in her lilac colored dress, soon appears and quickly sets to right the once empty table. A plate covered in venison and chopped carrots as well as potatoes has been set by her gentle healing hand. Before she leaves, she tips her head in respect towards him.

Alone, in the middle of the entire village and under their watchful gaze does realization now dawn upon him. His eyes flutter shut as guilt roars deafeningly in him. Reluctantly he opens his eyes and reaches out to the slab of meat before him and rips a piece off. The meat is juicy and steaming as it sits clutched between his thumb, index and middle finger. He glares at the chunk accusingly as if it is the reason all is wrong in his life. For a moment he entertains the thought of throwing the piece into the dirt and stepping on it.

But he knows he cannot. It is the chiefest of insults to his people. Besides that, doing so would scorn the decision he himself has just made as Thain. It would give the old clans—what remained of them—just reason to break away and deny him as their leader.

Slowly, he brings the meat to his lips and under the gaze of all his people he eats the damnable food. His jaw working on automatic, chewing so that he doesn't choke, and his fingers tearing more meat away. At the sight of him eating the village easily follows. Their own reluctance plain to see. But he says nothing for he is acutely aware that his reluctance in doing just the same is coming off him in waves.

“It will take us nearly Four Moons to ready everything,” Lobelia's hoarse voice suddenly sounds besides him.

He says nothing, cannot begin to think of what to say to her. So he only nods and continues to eat. Ignoring the fact that the food tastes like ash upon his tongue.

 

* * *

 

 

1) :: _Soror Sanguine_ :: Blood Sister – a term used among Hobbits to signify a bond forged by blood spilled upon the Battle Field. Akin to something like: Shield Brother or such. It will be later discussed when the Company of dwarves deign it fit to grace us with their company.

2) :: _Appa_ :: Dad – This is a term often used for Dad in spanish. But, I grew up using it for my grandpa.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope y'all enjoyed!  
> I hadn't meant to write this chapter out but then I started wondering what might've taken place at the village after Azog rode off with their General in tow. Then I got to wondering how Lobelia and Bilbo might have interacted. I thought what if they fought. But then this happened and I much prefer it this way. I feel the Bricegirdle sisters are much alike in that they tie themselves to their duty and so it is only fitting that Lobelia--despite how angry at Bilbo she is--will remain at his side no matter what decisions he decides to make.  
> Anywho~~~~  
> I hope you guys like it!  
> Thoughts, suggestions, or questions are always welcomed!!!  
> -Ani<3


	16. Meeting The King of Bones and Rot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In where we meet a Mutated King and his ghastly subjects.

 

* * *

 

 

1) :: _**Nadal**_ – Stop!

2) :: _**Julconquerun-hai**_ –  The Unconquered People – this is the name the Orc's in Moria have given themselves. I'll go into it in further detail later on as well as the name Azog has given the Moria.

3) :: _**Akashuga**_ – Halfling

4) :: _**Bagronk**_ – Cesspool

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of slithering, of sick wet moving, is what first alerts her of the creatures appearance.

Her eyes—much like the rest of her peoples—aren't meant for the dark or shadows. She cannot see much outside of the range of the torch light. But her ears—as is the way of their people—can pick up many sounds. Her senses are nothing when compared to an elves but they are better than that of Dwarves, Men and even some Shadow creatures. It's enough to let her know that the goblins are now in the tunnels with them.

By the snarling of the wargs beneath and around her, the Orc's now know too.

Some signal must have passed through them all, unseen by her eyes, for the Orcs gather tighter to her and snuff out the light of their torches. The darkness that falls upon her is suffocating. Her hands slip off the fur of the beast and over to the hilts of her swords. Old familiar instinct makes it so that she ducks her head down and focuses on the soft movements hidden in the dark.

If there is a battle to be had it will not be her blood that spills here. At least, not alone it won't be. She is above all else a warrior. She will not go down without a fight. She cannot begin to count on the Orc's support, she cannot begin to imagine it, they will do nothing for her.

They are orcs. What care for her did they have?

None.

 _Though they might try to keep her safe_ , the stray thought supplies, _for Azog's sake and not her own._

Slowly light begins to bleed out into the dark. Light from an opening somewhere far into the end of the tunnel. It's enough to allow her the glimpses of short— _ **bulging**_ —figures. Figures with long willowy arms and short thin legs. Figures with no necks and long sharp fingers. The light is yellow and dingy and though it spells nothing but danger, the Orc's have no issue heading towards it.

More of those figures come into view and she holds no illusions over what they may be. They are Goblins there at the mouth of that opening. Goblins that wait for them in the yellow light. Goblins that slither on the walls and jump from stone spike to crumbling rock. Wretched creatures.

Faster than she can make sense of it, four bulging misshapen bodies fling themselves at the orcs by her sides. The wargs snarl, growl and bark—the noise sharpening against the jagged tunnel walls—the sound making it sound as if the beasts are eager to rip into flesh. The sound of swords being unsheathed echo in her ears as she draws her swords in time with the Orcs. Her curved swords slip from their holsters strapped to her back and slide easily into the flesh of a pale pink goblin with only one eye and a black mouth. It screeches as she pushes it off her sword.

“1) _ **Nadal**_!” the word bellowed in orcish cracks like thunder. Jezzö, that queer orc, is the one that seems to have shouted. His voice carrying wide and seemingly tossing the goblins from them all. In his slim hand he carries a large black double bladed axe. The size alone is bigger than Allê from toe to shoulder. She knows not how the Orc is able to wield it in one hand as effortlessly as he seems to be doing. A testament to the sheer power that these shadow creatures harbor.

More harsh cracks of that wicked tongue are issued and the swarm of disjointed goblin filth recede back. Their movements are reluctant and slow as they move back into that opening where the yellow light spills from. The high screeching voices of the goblin waste then sound. It is a harsh sound that makes everything in her want to curl up into her own self if only to rid herself of that sound. Still, she sits straight on the warg and lets her swords rest securely in the palm of her hands.

Whatever words are shared between Orc and Goblin seem to give way to the entrance where the mutated things stand. Slowly the circle around her of fur and teeth thins out. Two remain ahead of her, two at her side and five at her back. Carefully, the wargs make their way through the arch way and before her is the birth place of all her life's nightmares:

 _The Goblin Kingdom_.

Despite not wanting to, her heart begins to race in her chest. The breath she has held in her lungs, a steady rhythm in case she may need to fight again, leaves her in a whoosh. Her eyes blinded by the sudden flood of fire light burn and yet they widen further at what lays before her.

There had always been, at least in some small form, the last little ray of hope in her heart. The hope that after so many long black years, the goblin's numbers had depleted. That they—the Goblins—were just as beaten down and wary as her own people. This hope is what had kept her strong in the days of no food. This hope is what she told her sister as they huddled by the firelight in naught but hole filled rags. This hope is what has kept her alive.

This hope...this hope dies at what she see's as the warg carefully maneuvers the broken wooden walkway.

The opening is large. So very large that she can hardly make out the top of the cavern walls. In width, she thinks it might be as wide as all of the Gray Mountains. In it are walkways, seatings and ledges made of wood and rope. Goblins, in all their pale pink hideous glory, litter every piece of wood and stone. There are so many of them.

So many…

All of them clamoring and screeching in that vicious tongue of theirs. All of them jumping and dancing as they throw bones and stones at her and the Orcs.

A cold feeling, something akin to _defeat_ , has begun to spread in the middle of her chest. A nasty feeling accompanied by the knowledge that the damnable creatures would outlive the last of her peoples youngest child. These Goblins were not dying here in the mountains. They were prospering. Enough so that the whole of this room was trembling with their excitement.

“Ah! What brings Orcs into my Kingdom?” a voice, deep and wretched, stills the chatter of the pale demons.

Forcing her gaze forward she finds the Goblin King and then...she wishes she hadn't. He is a hideous sight—the Goblin King. A sight enough to swirl her empty stomach. A sight that makes her want to jam her knives into the warg she rides and lead it out of this den of monsters.

Jezzö is the one who speaks to that wretched creature. His harsh voice clicking, hissing and growling as he leads his warg over to the front of the gathered Orc group. His spot remains empty for only a moment. Another Orc, nameless and only with one eye takes his place.

“Oh, so these are Orcs from _Moria_ , then?” the great ugly thing crows. His sagging putrid face pulling into a vile smear of a smile. His eyes, so small on such a large face, are glowing bright and nasty. He's seated atop a throne made of bones and dirty rope. A wooden staff with skulls upon it's head rests in his right hand.

Jezzö growls something quick and ugly that makes the Goblin King's smile spread into something like a leer.

“Oh yes, I forgot. You don't call the mines that anymore, do you? Azog's cleaned up the name just as he's prettied up those dusty old tunnels. What do you call yourselves now? 2) _ **Julconquerun-hai**_? **The Unconquered people**? Such pretty little names.” the Goblin King sneers. His eyes fixed firmly on the queer orc of Azog's chosen squadron.

The shock of seeing so many Goblins at once as well as the appearance of the one crowned king takes a moment to flow out of her. Enough so that she nearly misses the way the Orc's around her growl out in a cruel heated sense of anger. Clearly, there _was_ dissension between Orc and Goblins. She knows not how Orc or Goblins treat each other outside of a battle field, but, even she can see the obvious disdain on the Goblin Kings boil riddled face. Obviously, Azog and the Goblin King were not on friendly terms.

(If Goblins and Orcs were ever indeed able to act as such.)

“And _why_ have such _noble_ and _elite_ people deigned it fit to pass through my realm yet again?” the Goblin King calls out, his loud voice booming over the parapets that house his kind.

Again, it is Jezzö who speaks. His voice sharp and quick. The words she does not understand only the familiar 3) _ **Akashuga**_ —what the orcs have always called her people—that is thrown out does she catch. The conversation is obviously about her as the King turns his dark gaze from the Queer Orc that leads, over to her amid Warg and Orc.

“Ah, so this is why Azog has forbidden me from hunting these ugly vicious little cretins? He plans to mate one of these heathens?” the Goblin King barks out in laughter. The pale pinkish smaller goblins—with pointed black teeth and splintered taloned fingers—join him in his mocking, “An alliance between Orc and Halfling, such an entertaining notion. Would it not be easier to simply take them all by. Why not let my subjects hunt them down like the little animals they are? We'll finally rid the lands of them and” at this he pauses and practically purrs, “we'll even give him some of the prettier ones. They're tiny—smaller than my subjects—but they can put up quite a fight when they want too. We can even start with that one there.”

Fear is something she's all but beaten down into submission within herself. She is not so diluted that she will claim she does not feel fear. No, she feels fear a plenty—especially now. But, Fear is something she knows she does not have the luxury to act upon or display. Fear—Orcs and Goblins alike, they can smell fear. So she's learned to temper it. Push it down so that she may not yet be eaten alive by it or because of it.

Yet, hearing the Ghoulish Fiend sprout such wicked threats makes her heart stutter in her chest. It makes her want to run. It makes her feel as if she is yet again a babe and needs her mother to guard her and protect her. The grip around her Father's curved swords tighten impossibly.

If she must, she will kill this Bastard Bane. Treaty between Azog's people or not. She will not let them run her people down for mere sport. She will do as Bullroarer once did and behead their _King_.

The sound of fierce growls knock her out of her murderous thoughts. Both Jezzö and the Orc's that surround her are growling and hissing. The clash between orcish and Goblin tongue tears at something within her sensitive ears. Allê has no handle on the language but she can only barely make out tone. Whatever is said is uttered in a tone that could be labeled as hateful, if nothing else.

Whatever is said causes the Goblin King's face to twist in anger as he hunches his bulging body forward and bites out, “ _ **I**_ am  King here! Azog holds no power over these lands! I do not take orders from a Two Blooded child. A mere mutt!”

Again, Jezzö growls and hisses, his head twisting as he motions to something beyond the Goblin King. More ' **Akashuga** 's are spitted out and whatever Jezzö says causes the Goblin King to bare his teeth and hiss himself. The grip on his Bone staff tightens impossibly. When Jezzö finally ceases speaking the Goblin King is no longer looking anywhere near Allê or the group of Orcs. He is peering off to the sides, to the little pale armless crony that seems to be seated on a wooden board suspended in the air, and then his gaze flashes back over to them. There's a wicked gleam to his dark eyes as he runs a large ghastly hand over the rim of his bone crown.

Slowly the creature rises to his short bulging legs. His great stomach sagging low and swinging with his movement until finally he stills just steps before Jezzö the queer orc.

“As a gesture of my good will and to ensure prosperity between two Nations: I'll allow you to leave my kingdom in peace. Despite the clear insult you have given to me by bringing one of those creatures,” at this he points a lumpy thick finger in her direction, “into my humble Kingdom.”

Not allowing him to even properly finish, Jezzö bites and growls at the Goblin. That black double bladed axe squarely pointed at the chest of the Goblin King. A threat, if ever Allê saw one, being displayed to the whole of the Goblin Kingdom.

Sneering, dark and ugly, the Goblin King hisses in that screech of Goblin tongue before announcing, “Fine. As requested, we will cease the hunting of these foul rats. Now be gone from my realm!”

And with that, a wave of the Goblin King's sagging arms, the group of Orcs and Wargs begins to move out and away. Jezzö leading in the front and the whole of the Orcs surrounding her so tight that they may as well have joined her atop of her disgruntled mount.

It does not take long for them to leave the grand cavern throne room and enter yet another tunnel. The torches are once again lit and slowly—amid orcs—Allê does what none of her people have ever done before: leave the Goblin Kingdom Alive.

Somewhere ahead of all of them, Allê can barely make out the garbled spit out word Jezzö flings into the dark, “4) _ **Bagronk!**_ ”

Whatever the Queer Orc has said makes the Orcs at his back barking and growling in what Allê can only make out as... _agreement_.

 

* * *

 

 

1) :: _**Nadal**_ – Stop

2) :: _**Julconquerun-hai**_ – The Unconquered People – this is the name the Orc's in Moria have given themselves. I'll go into it in further detail later on.

3) :: _**Akashuga**_ – Halfling

4) :: _**Bagronk**_ – Cesspool

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so first off, I want to apologize if this chapter feels a bit impersonal and wonky. My son caught something his doctor happily called the 'Summer Flu' and I think I'm coming down with it too. So I'm not feeling great. But I wrote this down and I figured it was good enough to post.  
> Let me know what you think and if it needs more editing.  
> thoughts, comments, and suggestions are always welcome!  
> -Ani<3
> 
> (P.S. Do you guys know how hard it was to not describe things with regular modern day vernacular? Like I couldn't call the cavern roofs 'Ceilings' because Alle and her people are nomadic. They wouldn't know what that was. I was struggling, not going to lie. And then the whole dialogue between the Goblin King and Jezzo! Ughhhh. Obviously I knew what was being said. But Alle didn't so I kind of bashed my face into the keyboard before finally just giving up and handing you guys this. Soooo, please forgive me if things feel disjointed.)
> 
>  
> 
> Also, the Orcish was found through online scouring. If it's incorrect please do me a GIANT solid and ignore my ignorance!


	17. A New Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new player gets thrown into the mix.  
> (and a familiar friend if y'all can spot them!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to go about this in a vague--cloak and dagger--kind of way. But I fear I might have just left too many things out.  
> If y'all are to confused read the End Notes to find out who and what's going on. If you don't want to know and want to trek on with a little suspense feel free!  
> I hope you all enjoy!!!

* * *

 

 

The air is foul here—rotten like everything else. The smell comes from deep down below. It wafts up from the pit of this place—from where the Stone Child first Woke. All of this place has been tainted. Tainted with a magic from darker times, from harsh wars and bloodier wars than these days.

Whatever magic is here, is but an echo of what it used to be. The sorcery of the Witch King has seeped into the very bones of this ruins. The Dark Lord may have left them, but his magic—and that of his most favorite Pets—endured ever still. Whenever he steps upon the stone he can feel the pulse of necromagic stir about. The wargs bred here have begun to twist and break under this echo of malicious magic. The nature too.

His army has begun to bend to this magic as well. The faded image of what they had once been is beginning to stretch out. Their appearance looking no better or worse than the nasty mounts they claim.

Most days, these thoughts weigh heavy upon him.

Other days, other days he cannot begin to form a thought outside of the band that sits within his hand.

“My Lord,” a voice calls out to him. A slithering bleak voice breaks the concentration he has on the large weighted thing that sits upon his hand.

“What,” he growls, his one eye trailing up off his clasped hand and over to the creature who speaks.

The sight of an Orcish warrior is what greats him. Black hair and deep blue skin adorned in dull colored armor. Leqko—for that is the orcs name—is a powerful Orc. One who has seen many battles and one who does not questions the orders he is given. His face is twisted, his jaw misaligned and his body too stout. He is a product of this place. Of inbreeding. Of their peoples lines being corrupted to serve more masters than they can count. But Leqko would ride into death without a second thought. And so, he pushes back the old notions of honor, of respect and of dignity.

There is no place for such notions here...in the bowels of this fell place.

“You've been summoned my Lord,” Leqko growls, his tongue slipping and spilling over on the Black tongue him and his kind use.

“I am summoned by none,” he answers in orcish for there is much he has left behind but this he will keep. His body may be twisted and mutilated and his mind now leashed, but, his tongue would remain free of this perversion.

For a moment there is quiet, peace that rings out into the large room of black stone and darker weeds with thorns, before Leqko speaks again, “The White Hand my lord. He summons you to the ruins in the Darkwoods.”

Slowly, he blinks his eyes and twists his head. The metal embedded into his shoulder and head scrapping harshly against each other. The sound of it echoing into the dark. The metal forced onto his skin, like this foul stench, is an unnatural thing. But so is he. He's unnatural. An oddity even among those of his line.

_A_ _dishonor_ , the words ring in his mind. The voice that whispers that to him is familiar. As familiar as the ache in his bones and the burn of pain behind his unseeing eye. His fathers voice.

“The wizard?” he drawls, low and lazy.

“Yes my lord,” Leqko hisses, the fur that trims his clothing beneath his armor sways to some unseen and unfelt wind.

For a long while he simply sits there, in his throne; a throne of black stone seeped in foul magic and allows his mind to wander. The weight in his clasped hand continues to grow until once again his thoughts are forced to it. A dull thing, it's surface is scratched. Nothing about it is appealing. Nothing about it would suggest it is anything of value. But one need only hold it to know: to feel it.

There is dark power that pulses in this band. As sure as the dark magic hidden within every stone in this ruined Kingdom, this band—this _thing_ —is a relic of darker powers. It calls to him, calls to something dark and wild within him, though he knows not what. It promises him power and blood—both black and red—but asks for nothing in return. Only...only if he would _wear_ it. Just **once**.

It is a strange thing. A magicked thing. A cursed thing.

He knows what it is, this _band_. He was reared on stories of the  Dark Lord. He knows what magick He has left behind and what the prophecy for His return shall be. And yet, this thing—this Band—does not wish to be found as the stories always say it does. It craves power. It craves death and destruction. But, it does not crave his old master. It wishes for something... _ **more**_. Something grander and far fouler.

The mere mention of the White Hand—the wizard of metal and stone—makes the thing in his hand hiss and boil. The dull golden band burning hot and uncomfortable. It does not wish to meet the wizard. Does not wish to be a part of any of the fallen Istari's plans.

Gripping it tight into the palm of his hand, he barks out an order for a company to ride out with him. The band in his hand screeching it's protest until he hangs it once again around his neck. He has not worn it, the old magic in his blood keep him safe, so far. But it's songs are sweet and taste of victory. He does not doubt that soon he will succumb. Soon he will fall sway to the voice within the band.

Until then, he will hold it tight to his chest. The thing speaks of coming wars and battles between Orc, Dwarf, Elf, and Man. It speaks of darker days upon the horizon. He will keep it close if only to hear it's voice. For now, he rides to the ruins of Dol Guldur to see to the plans the wizard Saruman has conjured in his maddened mind.

 

 

* * *

******Caution Spoilers lurk in the End Notes!!!****** 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope no one is too confused!!!  
> Now first things first....  
> That was Bolg y'all, sitting in the ruins of Mount Gundabad! And guess what he's bring to the story?! The One Ring!!!
> 
> Honestly though, I hadn't planned to write a Bolg chapter so early on. But then I was doing dishes and I started thinking about Voldemort and his horcrux's. Technically he split his soul into the items right? Well, I think Sauron must have done about the same. And then I started wondering. Would the peices, with bits of soul, not become sentient after a while? What if somewhere along the way, the Ring--who has some ways to wield power (I.E turn a wear invisible or such)--want to be a wielder of his own fate? After all it does, in a sense, speak to those around it.  
> I figured, since I'm already tits deep into a fanfic where I plan to write tender love scenes between an Orc Warlord and a Hobbit OFC I might as well pull out all the stops.
> 
>  
> 
> Thoughts, suggestions or comments are always welcome!  
> -Ani<3
> 
> (P.s. Again any errors or wonky sentence structures can be blamed on the Flu I was given to by my son. I swear parenthood is just a fancy title they give sanctioned biological warfare.)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the Pale Stone and into the Clearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so embarrassed by this chapter. I'm sorry if it's all over the place, I sincerely hope you all like something from it.  
> (Read End Notes if any are interested in my insane ramblings.)

 

* * *

 

 

Starvation. No time for rest or sleep. Bone aching Fatigue.

These are all things she is well quarantined with. As a Bounder she had spent many restless days stationed in a tree without moving an inch. As a Rover she had learned that sleep was one way to get herself killed in the wild—no place was safe enough to close her eyes. As a Death Weaver she knew what it was to move for days on end and never have anything more than air in her belly.

These feelings are no strangers to her. Back, even before her endless years of training, these feelings are well known friends to her. Children of her tribe are more used to hunger pains than they are a sated belly. She remembers running, when the goblins broke through the defenses, how they scrambled up into the tree tops. She remembers huddled in a hallow tree trunk gripping a knife she knew not how to use with exhaustion trembling hands. These feelings are no strangers to her.

So does not suffer as much in their trek under the pale stone. What she does not care for, and what bothers her above all else, is her inability to tell what time of day it is. As a child of 1)Terra she finds herself in the hum that trembles beneath the soft earth. She finds herself in the rays of the sun and the warmth of the summer days. She—and her people as well—are not meant for the dark and the cold. They do not bear it well. The stone and the cold were for the Dwarves. The suffocating dark was for the Orcs.

But, she forces herself to find comfort in the torches that the Orcs light. She does not know how much time has passed only that the four torches have been changed six different times. If they are anything like the torches the Bounders use—made of oil and tree sap—each torch can stay lit for nearly half a night. So maybe, she thinks, nearly three days have passed since they first entered this maze of tunnels.

In all honesty, she isn't sure. The only thing that has assured her time is passing is that her stomach is beginning to burn with hunger. Her hips are beginning to scream in pain where she is unaccustomed to having a mount so wide as the warg beneath her. Her lower back is aching too—a slow burn steadily growing bigger. Her discomfort is enough to make her want to scream in frustration. But she keeps her lips sealed and settles for glaring at anything and everything her eyes are unfortunate to land upon.

The sound of water trickling down over and over again is slowly beginning to drive her insane. She can see it trailing down the cave walls. The flame light glistening off it and turning the ashen walls an ugly shade of yellow. The water gathers at the tunnel floor and for a good while used to simply pool there. The wargs would slosh about in the ankle deep—at least to wargs great bulk—dirty waters. Now it is sliding downward. Heading deeper into the darkness they—the group of one hobbit and eight Orcs—march to.

Silence, that sat heavy upon her shoulders, is broken by the sound of growls of hisses. The language of the Black and Blue fiends echoing like witchery in the hallow of the caves. She tenses involuntarily at the sound of it. Instinct making her left hand crawl to the sword strapped to her right thigh. Moving slow and purposefully to conceal the act of her movement.

Since their departure from the Goblin King's throne room, the Orc's have not said a single word. Nothing more than grunts and growls to spur the wargs onward at faster speeds. The tension in the air is not only of her own making—no one can rightly blame her for feeling anxiety over the fact that she sits among _them_ —but this tension is of the Orcs making.

The slithering sound of Goblins hiding in the shadows can still be heard. They are being followed since they left the Goblin King behind. They are being watched. The hair at the back of her neck standing on edge as if eyes are snaking their way down her flesh. They are not alone and she finds herself in agreement with the orcs on this fact: they wish their spies dead.

“ _ **Akashuga**_ eat,” the queer orc—Jezzö suddenly growls at her from her right.

Her own set of dark eyes flash over to the creature, ready—if anything—to identify a threat. What she finds is a blue hand—darkened by the poor lighting of the tunnels—outstretched towards her. Instinct, of nearly a lifetimes worth of war and bloodshed, has her withdrawing her knife as quick as she can. She expects to hear the clash of metal against metal: sharpened knife against sharpened sword. It is a familiar sound, a welcomed sound in the oppressive silence, but she hears it not.

The blade, a curved shiny thing—much like all weapons in her Tribe—meets not with Iron, Rock or club. What it meets and slices through is something shaded brown. It is a something that is soft, softer than iron and rock, and easily gives way to her knife. Confused or not, she stays quiet as she glares at the brown thing the orc is threatening her with.

“ _ **Akashuga**_ eat,” Jezzö the orc repeats again, he does not pull his hand away nor the brown strip Allê has sliced through.

Her pride, whatever she has left of it, wants to pull away and fix her stare into the never ending dark they chase. But she knows better than to be ruled by such a thing. She is, after all, the more sensible sister. Actions like snubbing for the mere sake of doing so, is more Lobelia's style. Allê likes to use her head if the situation allows it.

So, she unsticks her tongue from the roof of her mouth and bites out, “What is it?”

“Meat,” the orc replies easily, a bark and a growl in that tongue of theirs before Jezzö demands of her, “ _ **Akashuga**_ no eat meat?”

There are millions, if not infinite, amounts of reasons she should not accept anything from this orc—least of all something he claims to be edible. But, her mind reasons, what choice does she have.

Slowly she forces her right hand to unfurl from the fur of the beast beneath her and take the outstretched strip of meat. The orc releases it without preamble and turns back away from her to stare forward. Allê in turn is left, moderately, alone to inspect what she has been given. Carefully she turns it over in her hand. The strip is no wider than the span of three of her fingers. Discreetly she raises it up so that she may take a whiff of it. It does not smell foul, spoiled or poisoned.

In fact, it smells like deer meat. Good deer meat. Enough so, that her stomach growls and twists at the scent of it. She wants nothing more than to stuff it whole into her mouth. But she cannot begin to trust that an orc would offer food out of kindness. Still, why would they poison her after all of this?

They need her alive just as much as she—Allê—might need Azog to survive. Because clearly, clearly, the Goblin King and his minions were never going to leave her people in peace. The Goblins would hunt them until every trace of their existence was gone. Azog and his order of Orcs were the only things that stood between Her people and the Goblin Kings. And if the Gray Wizard is to be believed, then Azog needed her people too.

Hesitantly she raises the dried strip of meat to her lips and takes a bite. Faith being her only motivator to chew and swallow.

Before long the strip is gone and the swirling hunger in her belly has receded back some ways. Silently her eyes roam the edges of stone just beyond the torchlight's reach. She's noticed now, for this has been an awfully long time of riding in silence among unwanted company, that the tunnels they traverse dip down and arch upward. Always she is pushed back in her saddle seat and yet must fight to stay on in other times. They've crossed many bends where the wargs must turn sharply and climb on uneven rubble tossed about.

The tunnel they are now in has widened. There are no simple eroded tunnels they trek through. These are pathways. Pathways from when these mountain stones belonged once to the race of Dwarf. She can see it in the way some of the stone walls run smooth and polished before cracking to some nameless abuse. The Orcs are navigating whatever lost and forgotten passages were once only known to dwarf.

 _This must have been how they came upon the village so quick_ , Allê thinks. For the mines of Moria are well over a nine month journey to the Trollshawls. Azog must have used these tunnels to get to them. These tunnels must be somehow connected to the other Dwarf Kingdoms.

Though to what extent? She cannot even begin to imagine.

 _Perhaps I will be forced to endure the entire journey under shadow and stone_ , her mind wonders and then curses all the shadow creatures in existence.

And then, as if reading her mind, Jezzö shouts something that causes the heads of every Orc present snap forward in high alert. His words are like bitten barks, like wargs growls stuffed deep into her sensitive ears, and rusted knives running down her spine. For a moment, she sits stock still, her breathing ceased as fear clouds her mind. She wonders if an order to kill has been placed—against her, or the Goblins hiding in the shadows, she doesn't know.

But, the Orcs make no move to lunge at her or the creatures following them. Instead, a brisk pace is suddenly taken by all the wargs. Fast paced and clipped as the torches are suddenly tossed down and the trot is picked up to near break neck speeds. Instinct, and years jumping on the backs of wild bucks and feral ponies, is the only thing that keeps her astride the back of the beast beneath her. Still, deer and ponies are nothing when compared to the power of a wargs lunges.

In what feels like seconds, the heavy darkness that has engulfed them so easily, is abruptly shed. There, through one of the many cracks upon the pale stone, the light of the waning moon bleeds through. The white light cutting through the inky dark like a sharpened sickle. For a moment, her heart soars at the sight of the stars twinkling distantly in the night sky. The prospect of fresh air—not dampened and heavy hanging as that of the musky tunnels holds—makes an eager anticipation swell just beneath her breast bone. The thought of getting off this damnable beast and touching dry ground making a wild kind of smile spread on her lips.

But then, she remembers who she's traveling with. Her captors, in a sense, won't care if she needs a moments rest. They won't care if her hips feel as they are about to be popped out of place. They probably won't care that she wishes to simply stand still a moment and listen to the hum of her creators song. They probably don't care…

And again, as if reading her thoughts, another barked order is issued by Jezzö. His voice ripping out the tender silence of the night. With a burst of energy and speed, the wargs wildly charge out of the broken tunnel. What they exit to is a sight that nearly stirs a hysterical bark of laughter out of her.

The tunnel leads out into a simple clearing. A clearing of lush green grass and large towering trees. A clearing that holds the end of a small river's waterfall. A clearing that smells of fertile earth and clean water. A clearing that looks as inviting as a bed made of moss and hay after a long days work.

A clearing—she realizes—is probably meant for the wargs to drink their fill so they may carry on. A clearing not meant for her.

Quickly the wargs approach the clearing. Their great big paws drenched in murky mud water staining the vibrant green. Jezzo's broken voice echoes as he barks his orders to his fellow Orcs. Sending them, no doubt, to ensure the safety of the area. It doesn't take long for the riderless wargs to rush off into the woods. The black ruddy color of their fur blending in seamlessly to the shadows the moon casts.

Slowly, but surely, those whom are mounted, approach the little ponds edge. And it is as the wargs slowly drink their fill, that Allê is jolted from her morose thoughts, as Jezzö easily dismounts from his beast and stares expectantly at her to do the same.

“Akashuga no drink?” Jezzö asks, his hairless brows scrunched up in confusion as all orc's but she drop down to drink from the pond.

This time, she does not fight the startled—slightly deranged—laugh that bubbles in her chest and falls freely forward.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all don't hate this completely, or myself for that matter.
> 
> Leave comments and suggestion down below.  
> All is welcomed.  
> -Ani


End file.
